White Lily, Blue Ribbon
by CANDYisEpic
Summary: Set immediately after the events of the Opera Populaire, 1870. The Phantom flees Paris and takes up residence in a new opera house. There he finds something that he truly had not been expecting; a friend. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not, in fact own the Phantom of the Opera, or the music by Andrew Lloyd Webber. =[**

**However this story is all MINE! -mwahahahaha- And hugs for Suzette for being beta ^^**

**This story is for anyone else who thinks that the Phantom deserved a happy ending too. **

* * *

**~White Lily, Blue Ribbon~**

The infamous Phantom of the Opera drew his thick, black cape tighter about his shoulders against the snow, his breath misting in the darkness, lit up by a flickering street lamp.

It was colder here, in London.

He clenched his teeth hard against the tears that threatened to slide down his face again, as he walked briskly down the ice crusted alleyways, his unseeing eyes fixed on the road ahead.

She was gone forever now.

She had made her choice, and it hadn't been him. She had chosen the handsome, if brainless, young aristocrat. She deserved him, the Phantom thought bitterly. Someone youthful and vibrant. Someone who could care for her every need, who could protect her and provide her with a home... and a family.

The Phantom almost choked in blinding fury at the thought. She deserved a secure life.

But he didn't deserve her.

He saw only her voice, that talentless _vicomte_. Her voice and her beauty. He didn't know her darkest fears. Her hopes and dreams. The words she whispered in her sleep. He only knew her voice. The voice of angels.

'The voice _I_ gave her'

His fists clenched inside his gloves and he gritted his teeth tighter, stopping walking and gripping the frozen metal railing that fenced off one of the fine buildings of London's Opera Quarter. His vision swam as he steadied himself. He had been reflecting too long on his past mistakes, he needed to clear his head. Eventually his ragged breathing slowed and his eyes cleared of their burning tears.

That was the reason he had come to this sad, grey little country. To no longer burden her, but also, to free himself of her. He knew he would no longer be able to bear the sight of the Opera Populaire, or his dark realm underneath it. The echo of her memory would simply drive him insane.

He had had all of his possessions moved over from Paris a week before, even his organ. It had all been done covertly; the working men who had done the task were probably still unaware of their employer's identity.

When he reached the right address he stopped and surveyed it.

London's Royal Opera House was not as ornate as he was accustomed to, though it was elegant with it's soaring pillars and, indeed, charming in it's own right. He would map it out and discover it's secrets in the days that followed. Madame Giry had spoken of it's own set of secret access ways similar to that of the Paris Opera, that he would employ to his benefit. Unfortunately he was unaware of any caves underneath it, so he had instead found, with the help of Madame Giry, and bought for a wonderfully low price the derelict and no longer working clock tower that stood opposite the old opera house.

He surveyed the tower; it was fairly large and the hands of the huge clock face were stuck at ten minutes to two. He understood it had been deserted for many years now, and it's previous owner had only kept it for the forlorn hope that the land price might go up one day.

It was Gothic, he determined with his architect's eye, if a little simple for the style, and though not as secluded as his Paris home, would at least provide him with the darkness he so loved, as it had no windows.

The Opera Ghost entered by the side door- the only door, his travelling suitcase in hand. He soon found himself in a narrow passageway, that quickly became a narrow spiral stairway. He locked the door behind him and left the key on the dusty wooden sideboard, which also housed a vase of dead and crusty old roses.

A tiny frown came to his face as he surveyed them, running a gloved finger along the stem of one, causing a few petals to drift to the ground. He would replace these when he next had the chance. He saw behind the vase a small oil lamp, and picked it up. After searching his breast pocket for a match he managed to light the lamp, and it cast a soft yellow glow, throwing dark shadows against the close walls.

Turning swiftly away from the table, he ascended the small staircase, and found himself in a small, six walled room, one wall of which was taken up by the enormous, semi-transparent rear of the clock face, partially obscured by the motionless gears and machinery that would have once driven the mechanism.

Many of his possessions had already been arranged about the room, his organ backed against the clock face, and impressive and dramatic sight, he mused, lips forming for the first time in a month, into an approving smile.

His large bed stood in one corner, his oaken writing desk in another, and his wardrobe stood imperiously against one of the six walls. He noted the presence of a large fireplace at the very right of the room with satisfaction. As of yet, the room was sparsely furnished to his taste, but pushed to the left few walls were many crates of his candles, rich drapery and other pieces of furniture like his deep arm chairs and even his broken mirrors and other items of various nature that would make this empty room feel more like home.

Home.

He stood silently for a few moments, not even bothering to put down the lamp and his traveling valise, staring at the dusty wooden floor but seeing nothing. His mind filled only with images of Paris, of his opera house.

Of Christine.

At the thought of her name, the backs of his eyes pricked once again with hot tears, and instead of pushing them away as he usually did, he let all of his emotions come crashing down on himself, in a wave that left him, and his eyes, drained and dry. Eventually it passed, leaving in its place the feeling of calm exhaustion.

She was happy now.

The thought brought a tiny smile to his eyes. He threw off his coat, blew out the lamp, setting it on the floor and then lay wearily down on the bed, not even bothering to take of his mask.

"We all must learn to say goodbye."

Tomorrow he would begin the process all again,- the strange occurrences and supernatural seeming "accidents", then, these increasing in number and eventually leaving tokens at the scene – he would need to order new roses…

Eventually he would leave notes, signing them; "Opera Ghost" and after that, demand payment. Until then, he would live off of his last payment from the owners of the Populaire, which would sustain him for quite some time.

'We all must learn to say goodbye.'

The gentle rhythm and cadence of the words carried him off to sleep, and as he drifted off the beginnings of a new melody danced around his mind. Of perfect fourths and fifths, it soared and sighed wistfully, speaking of unanswered prayers and beautiful lies. Easing for now the aching loneliness that ruled the Phantom of the Opera's existence.


	2. Chapter 2

**~White Lily, Blue Ribbon~**

The next morning, for the first time in his life, the Phantom of the Opera was woken by the sun.

He frowned in confusion, his eyes still closed, and seeing red through his eyelids. He rolled over to face the other direction, trying to ignore it, but the burning light still penetrated his drowsiness.

Finally, he could no longer stand it so he grudgingly opened his eyes, groggily muttering "But the room has no windows", rubbing his eyes as he rose.

Once his eyes had grown used to the light, he was able to determine the source of it. He sighed.

Of course.

It streamed in cheerfully through the clock face, the hands and gears casting long sharp shadows across the room. He stared absently at them for a moment as he cleared the cobwebs of sleep in his mind, then set it to work about how he would overcome this problem of being woken up early each morning by the light.

He found that he would easily be able to hang some of his heavier cloth from the rafter that ran just in front of the clock face, parallel to it, and so be able to curtain off most of the light. But first was first.

He went to work immediately, opening crates and removing their contents, placing them where they belonged. He worked on this for the remainder of the morning, and into the afternoon, scattering the empty crates here and about the room. He preferred a cluttered space to think and work in, he found it let his creative mind flourish. Slowly but surely the little room began to resemble more how the caves underneath the Paris Opera used to be.

He unearthed his old broken mirrors, and though they reminded him painfully of his last days in Paris, he was loath to part with them, so he aligned them along the length of the southern wall, similar to that of an arrangement in a ballet studio. He smiled, thinking of Madame Giry and her kindness to him through the years. The only true kindness he had ever really known. He sighed. Even she had feared him.

Time passed as he unpacked crates upon crates of sheet music, empty paper and writing materials, gathering the quills and ink bottles; the majority of them red, on his desk. He enjoyed writing in red ink, it intimidated the reader of the letter or if he was using it for notating his music, it gave the page an otherworldly quality.

He unloaded all his different fabrics nest, and in no time, was able to fashion a large, heavy pair of bottle green curtains blocking off the clock face, but rigged so that the pull of a chord would open and close them when he chose. He looked on his work with pride, once he had finished.

The other various fabrics were scattered about the room. Lastly he opened the crates that held his hundreds of candles and candelabras, and spent a few hours setting them up, about the room, in places where they wouldn't be at risk of setting anything on fire. Finally, he set the last candle upon the organ and surveyed the room, satisfied. Then he frowned. Something still annoyed him.

That was it.

He kicked at the dust that caked the floor disapprovingly, and the movement sent a little puff into the air. He would need to tend to this, but not today. He had one more thing he had to do today.

He moved into the centre of the room and knelt, brushing away dust with his gloved hands. Gradually the shape of a square began to emerge out of the dust, and a small metal circle. A keyhole. A smile graced his lips.

Just as Madame Giry said.

He inserted the gold key that had hung, unseen, on a chain around his neck and it clicked in the lock. The door swung easily up, revealing a dark tunnel that led straight downwards. Through the centre of the staircase, it went unknown. The Phantom grinned and swiftly lowered himself into it, swinging the door shut as he entered. He fell freely for a few moments then landed on a sturdy wooden platform, his boots making a satisfying thud.

He searched his pocket in the darkness and found a matchbox. He struck up a light, illuminating a pulley system and after a few moments of examining it, he found the right rope and unhooked it, slowly lowering himself down through the belly of the clock tower and underground. He stepped off the platform and found himself in a low, dark tunnel that stretched out before him in blackness. He had to crouch as he walked, and when he got to perhaps halfway the match flickered and went out.

"Dead air." He muttered to himself, annoyed. He had no choice but to press on in darkness, his hands feeling the walls either side of him as he moved.

In perhaps five minutes he reached a stairway that rose steeply upwards. He followed it, slowly and carefully as it climbed, turning short corners every now and then. He tried lighting another match, and it flickered into life, its light dancing about the cold brick walls and making it easier to navigate the stairs.

Eventually they came to an end.

The Phantom found himself at a very small wooden door, which had a lever, not a doorknob to open it. He pulled the lever downwards and the door moved aside.

He found himself in a fine, high box, overlooking the audience and stage. The brass sign on the door behind him read "Box Five"

"You _have_ to be joking" the Phantom murmured.

He turned from the sign and was interested to see a cast and crew busily preparing for an Opera. There was much running about and shouting and instruments trying to play over each other as they waited for the cue to begin a specific song. A thought striking him, he glanced around quickly for any witnesses to his arrival in the box and seeing none, he turned back to examine the doorway through which he had come.

In the row of chairs in front of him one had sprung up to reveal a stairway that descended into blackness. He smiled.

Very clever.

He reached forward to pull the chair back down over the entrance when he heard a commotion from the stage far below. He went to the railing and peered curiously.

"NO! I WON'T! I WON'T!"

"Miss Evelyn, please," an anxious voice floated from the music pit. The Phantom looked on, intrigued. This voice seemed to belong to a rather frail looking old man with a scraggly beard, who stood in the conductors place with a violin and bow in his hands. He was rocking on his feet nervously.

"The Prima Donna requires-"

"The _Prima Donna_ can go shove bar forty seven up her arse! I _wont_ do it again!" This voice belonged to a young girl, of perhaps twelve years, who stood in the centre of the stage.

She had thick, straight black hair that was cut at her shoulders and shone under the stage lighting. It had a bright blue ribbon in it, with a satin sheen that glinted in the light and seemed to shine with all the colours of the ocean and sky. It was a fascinating colour, he thought. It brought out the blue of her eyes, a more light, pastel shade, but clashed horribly with the dress she was wearing. It was an ugly salmon pink, and fell in folds and ruffles that reminded the phantom forcibly of the fungi that grew on the cave walls in underneath the Populaire.

It did not suit the girl at all. It hung shapelessly around her petite figure – she was small in every way, her hands, her body, her heart shaped face with a small button nose and small but full lips. Her skin was a milky pale, except covered with a generous dusting of freckles. Her eyes however were not small, but huge; like wide, blue moons. At the moment her face was screwed up in rage.

'A singer?' thought the Phantom, blocking out thoughts of Christine that threatened to overwhelm him again. The old man continued.

"Just once m-"

"NO!" the girl's fists were balled in fury. Her accent was peculiar, the Phantom thought. It sounded as though it had once been cockney, but then through rigorous training gained a more proper, rounded accent, although there was a hint of cockney still. 'Curious…' the phantom mused.

"You will do as I request." came another, older and higher voice from the wings, and a woman strutted on-stage. The Phantom was forcefully reminded of la Carlotta. Her cheekbones were high and proud, her hazel eyes sharp and glittering with annoyance. Her pasty skin was a pale mask, her hair long and voluminous and the colour of copper. She would have been beautiful, had her nose not been seriously damaged from a breakage at some point recently in her life.

"And you will not curse in my presence again."

Somehow, the little girl, Evelyn's towering and commanding presence that had been there a moment ago now had vanished, and in it's place, a meek and shy girl bowed her head in a mark of obedience. The Phantom found himself disappointed, and wondering where all her force had gone so suddenly. She was a curious girl, he had never before seen such tenacity in one so young, certainly not Christine, who had been manipulated by every single person she encountered, including himself. The girl gave a tiny curtsy to the woman which confused him.

"Yes mother."

Ah.

"Sing the line again." The diva commanded. She turned to the conductor once more. "Maestro."

The old man raised his bow and violin, giving the musicians the universal signal to be ready. They raised their instruments in silence. Evelyn sighed. They began to play a soft but swelling opening that began minor, but then was raised to the major, and the girl began to sing.

Her voice was unlike Christine's, though it rose and fell just as easily through the difficult passages. While Christine's voice was bright, clear, and powerful, it sounded hollow at times. Evelyn's was different. It was not as powerful, but it had a very special timbre, warmer and in some ways, gentler.

When Christine hit a high note it demanded attention, but this little dark haired girl managed to somehow ease in to her high notes, no less sweet and somehow gentler on the ears. This seemed to come naturally to her for she was much more focused on the operatic gymnastics she had to perform through the quicker lines. The Phantom now picked up on her mistakes; she was sacrificing some of her notes to keep to the tempo and she was having trouble breathing correctly.

She reached the climax of the piece and was stopped by the conductor at a wave from the Prima Donna.

"You are coming _up_ to the note; you must come _down_ from over the note." She instructed, and demonstrated, repeating the line. It was clear in the little girl's face, that she could not detect any difference.

"WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?"

The Phantom shook his head. 'Come now Evelyn dear,' he thought, a little amused, 'You will ruin your voice if you keep shouting like this.'

"That is _IT!"_ the Prima Donna cried, throwing her hands in the air in rage. "I refuse to teach this appalling child any longer! She does not take her part _seriously_, and she will not have her role ready in time for Opening Night next month, _I,_" She gestured to herself "Will have to perform it!"

All eyes had been fixed on the Leading Woman as she made her declaration, but then turned to Evelyn when the girl snickered. She gave her mother an amused look.

"But your nose-"

The Prima Donna turned and slapped her child. A bright red mark appeared on the girl's cheek, as she glared in fury and shock at her mother. The Phantom frowned, a thundercloud falling over the visible half of his face. The Prima Donna leaned down until her face was only a few centimetres from her daughters.

"You _will_ respect me." She breathed. Her skirts swished as she turned and exited, and the girl burst into tears and ran from the stage.

The Phantom stood silently in thought for a moment, brows furrowed. That, as he understood it, was not the way to treat a child, Madame Giry had shown him as much in her raising of Christine and Meg. More than that, the girl's voice was _good_, and with the right guidance-

No.

Angered at himself, he returned to the passage, pulling the chair violently down behind him, and swiftly descended the stairway in darkness.

He emerged in the clock tower, calmer now. He went to his organ and sat, taking off his cape and setting it on the stool beside him. He ran his fingers through his raven hair and sighed. He tentatively picked out a B flat major chord, changing to C major and then to D major.

Slowly he began to work in the melody he had imagined the night before, changing the chords to match Once he had it worked out, he elaborated and carried the theme, working in harmonies and counter melodies. At points the counter melody would clash with the main, but then he would resolve it with a cadence, and the piece became harmonious once more. The piece progressed smoothly. Up until he reached the bridge. He paused, frowning. He played the chord again.

No…

He changed the chord, moving it to the dominant, but it still did not sound right. He tried another but when that one sounded even worse than the last, he shut the lid in frustration.

He rose and stood beside the organ, and gazed past the curtains, through the clock face. The Royal London Opera stood proudly across the square, the sun setting behind it, casting bright reds and oranges across the sky, the likes of which he had never seen before. It was beautiful. He looked back at the opera house, which was dark against the light. He smirked. In a few short weeks he would have the whole opera house living in fear of him, and bowing to his every whim.

He moved to the thick gold cord, and at a tug, the velvety green curtains swung gently closed.

He would conquer them.


	3. Chapter 3

**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon ~**

When the Phantom awoke the next morning he arose, dressed and went to the box where he kept his money. He opened the little wooden box and withdrew a substantial amount of coin, putting it in a dark blue velvet pouch, which he then tucked inside his breast pocket.

Then he noticed something glimmer under a pile of tarnished silver. Curious, he dug underneath until he found it, and almost choked.

It was the ring he had given Christine.

All of a sudden the wild urge overcame him to throw it down the tunnel and lose it forever in the darkness, but he couldn't bring himself to. He put the ring in is pocket and tried to push it from his mind. Trying to not be ridiculously aware of its shape and weight in his pocket, he then picked up the dark top hat that rested on the corner of his wardrobe and pulled it very low over his mask. He checked himself in a mirror, and satisfied, he descended the narrow spiral stairway and stepped outside.

The sun washed over him in the most peculiar way, and it warmed him, his black coat catching and absorbing the rays.

His mask was obscured by the hat, so he attracted little attention as he made his way among the flower stalls that littered the square at this time of morning, with their colourful displays and vibrant vendors, advertising their wares.

In no time, he found a rose stall from which he ordered a large amount of stemmed red roses. The vendor looked at him curiously, but said nothing in regards to his appearance. He would have them sent to box five of the Royal Opera House and although the rose seller looked confused as to why he needed so many, she promised them before the week was out.

That job done, he began to walk back to his clock tower, when something caught his eye. It was a pair of rose bushes, potted. An idea struck him. Sunlight streamed into the clock tower in the daytime, and he had a gracious supply of fresh water from the tap in a bathroom off the narrow hallway he noticed when he had arrived. It would certainly save him having to be continuously buying roses…

When he returned to his clock tower he had two potted rose bushes in his arms and his head full of growing instructions from the man who sold them to him. He set the two young plants either side of his organ, where they would get a lot of sun each morning, then stood back and admired them. Then, he took off his hat and opened the trap door once more.

The trip to box five took less time than the last, and when he emerged above the stage, rehearsal was again underway. This time it was the young ballet dancers who occupied the stage. However in the orchestra pit the Prima Donna argued with the maestro and another man, who sported a huge moustache of thick brown hair. He was verging on the overweight and he wore a monocle. However he had the presence of a man in charge. Could this be the owner of the theatre?

"But Mr. Moretti, sir," the diva pleaded with him "She will never be ready in t-"

"She MUST be ready in time, miss Victoria, the opening night is in one month! I don't care if you have to whip her to get her to do what is necessary she MUST be ready-" the man had the hint of an Italian accent.

"Mr. Moretti," the maestro interjected, his face turning white, "There is no need for such measures, miss Evelyn will be ready in time I have no doubt, despite everyone's worries," he glanced quickly at Victoria, "She is quite-"

"She will not listen to a word of instructions-"

The Phantom turned away from the argument, which was beginning to tire him. He had something he had to do while they were busy. He looked back at the row of seats and counted two chairs to the right of the one that led to his tower. He moved to it and pulled both it's arms vertical, which required an amount of force. The chair swung upwards, revealing a new tunnel that wound through the opera house's walls.

'Excellent,' he thought.

He followed the narrow tunnel through the walls as it descended gently, turning corners, which seemed to lead backstage. He reached a panel that slid aside, and soon he found himself inside the wardrobe of a lady – it was full of fine dresses and coats. He pushed the door of the wardrobe aside and stepped stealthily into the dressing room of Miss Victoria, Prima Donna of the London Opera. He grinned. He had found the right room.

He pulled out a red sealing wax candle and his old skull stamp from an inner pocket. Quietly moving towards Victoria's desk, he lit the candle, allowing hot wax to drip onto the fine, polished wood. He pressed it with his stamp, leaving the fearsome image of a leering skull. That would be all he did today.

It would be best to start off small and slowly immerse himself further and further into the minds of the Opera House's residents, until they did as he wished.

He retreated into the wardrobe to view the results.

"You insolent child! I'll teach you to defile my possessions!"

"It wasn't me, I swear!"

Miss Victoria had her daughter by the onyx coloured hair, gesturing angrily to her desk, from where the skull stared blankly at the unfolding events. Victoria had come into the room and upon seeing the skull, called her daughter sweetly to come here for a moment. As soon as the girl did, eyes wide and innocent with curiosity, her mother had been on her, violent with anger. The Phantom had seen it all.

"You're telling me this is not your doing?" the Leading Soprano demanded.

"I swear! Mother, please." The girl whimpered.

"Who's then?"

"I don't know!"

Victoria roughly let go of her daughter, pushing her towards the door in disgust.

"I despise a liar Evelyn."

The girl bolted from the room, fighting against tears.

"I'm not a liar!" the Phantom heard her cry when she was a safe distance away, still retreating.

He fumed from his position inside the wardrobe. This hadn't been his plan, and more than that, he felt guilty now for being the ultimate cause of all the girl's distress. His jaw set with determination.

He _would_ conquer them. He just needed to step things up a few notches.

The next day when he arrived in box five he found a vast array of blood red roses in full bloom, to his satisfaction. He made short work of moving them just inside the tunnel to take them back later, but so they would be out of sight. He then selected one of them to take with him when he again visited the dressing room of Victoria.

He slid the panel aside and entered the wardrobe, but this time he did not intend to step outside. He pushed the dresses aside and took the first, an olive green affair with vertical white stripes.

"Hideous." He breathed, grinning, and took out his knife. In one smooth, clean movement he tore the dress straight down the middle, rendering it irreparable. Satisfied with his work, he turned to the next dress, which was a green-blue, and it met the same fate as its fellow.

One by one the dresses were mutilated each in turn with his knife, each the same way, one long rip down the centre from the bodice to the hem. When he finished his work he surveyed it happily. Then he opened the wardrobe door a crack and peered out into the room, which he found empty. He then look a short length of black ribbon out of his pocket and tied it around the rose, with a note attached. It read;

"_Deepest respects,_

_The Opera Ghost"_

He stepped quietly out of the wardrobe and placed it on her desk, which still had a mark from where he had stamped the skull before. He then left his knife with the initials "O.G." engraved is the butt of the hilt near the wardrobe door. It was long and dangerous looking, with a bit of a hook to the blade. He even took the trouble of staining it a little with his red ink, to give it a more dramatic effect. It was a warning.

Try blaming _that_ on a child.

His work was not yet finished, however.

It was not long before Victoria stormed into the room and slammed the door behind her, muttering angrily. Outside there was a nervous patter of young feet and a few girls' voices calling out things like "Miss Frost? Please come back! We meant no offence, honest! We didn't even know you were unmarried! Please come back! We can't continue rehearsals without your guidance! Miss Frost?"

She stood just inside the door as tears of frustration rolled down her face. She just couldn't cope with these children. The stress of training them; of putting up with their malicious whims and spiteful words. Children should not be allowed in the Opera.

The next thing they heard was her scream. The four dancers quickly opened the door; she was looking at her dresses, each of them ruined. At her screams a whole storm of people had come rushing to her aid, Mr. Moretti, the maestro and the little one, Evelyn among them. The little room became crowded very quickly.

"What has happened here, Victoria?" the manager demanded. "Who has done this?" he demanded of the room.

"No one we know," offered Evelyn helpfully, "Everyone was either at rehearsal or not in the Opera house, the cleaners are at the square on their break,"

"Hush, child." He commanded and she fell silent.

The maestro had already studied the damage to the dresses and had moved over to Victoria's desk, where the rose and note lay. Evelyn noticed him slip something that glinted faintly red into his pocket, a troubled expression on his face.

"A gift for you," he said, handing the rose to Victoria who still fretted about her dresses. She looked at it, confused.

"Was that with it?" she demanded, pointing at the note, which he still held in his hand.

"Yes." He said, reading it.

"What does it say?"

He told her and she scoffed.

"Opera Ghost?" but the ballet dancers were talking amongst themselves, frightened.

"Yes," Evelyn said, grinning. "He haunts the Opera House at night, searching for a young girl's voice to steal. He collects them, you know, in a little silver box. Of course, once he has the voice, he has no need for the body…"

"Evelyn that is quite enough." The maestro reprimanded her as the young ballerina's faces paled. She fell silent, still smirking. The ballet dancers went over to Evelyn, their expressions fearful.

"Is it true Evie? You've been here longer than any of us; you'd know any of the stories that go on here. Is there really an Opera Ghost?"

"Uhuh." She whispered in reply. "I've seen him."

'I certainly hope not.' The Phantom thought, from where he watched from the tunnel, viewing them through a crack in the bricks. He knew he had to be off soon, he had more yet to do…

Sure enough after the crowd had dispersed and left the room another shout of distress was heard from the music pit. The Phantom watched gleefully from a vantage point in box five.

The maestro was holding his violin with an expression of pure distraught on his face. The strings of his violin and bow had been ripped out, and then had been stuck to the wood of the violin with a red wax seal fashioned into the shape of a skull. He had carved O.G. into the wood next to the seal.

"It's the opera ghost," whispered one frightened ballerina to another.

"Told you it wasn't me," blurted Evelyn when she saw it.

"There is no such thing as ghosts!" Victoria shouted angrily.

"Then I don't know how you would explain this, Victoria," Moretti said frostily, giving her a penetrating look. "But it is not one of my employees, that is for certain."

The Phantom smiled. They had gotten the message.

Rehearsal was once again underway, and the dancers were all working furiously away as Evelyn found herself singing the same line over and over again. She was detecting a pattern here, but her mother was not far away, so she kept at it, despite how much she hated it.

She wondered how long she would be required to sing this damn line, but then was saved the trouble when something snakelike plummeted from the rafters above the stage, and landed around the neck of a young blonde ballerina. She screamed and pushed it off her neck and it fell to the ground, lying motionless.

It was a noose, with red hand shaped stains upon it. She burst into tears and all her fellows rushed to her side, where they comforted her, cooing and hugging her, their eyes fearful and wide.

Evelyn looked on, from her place by the piano, fascinated, her huge blue eyes even wider. The maestro leapt from the pit to the stage and picked up the noose, his eyes scanning it and finding a note attached. Moretti strode to where the maestro stood, his face drawn and troubled. Curiosity proved too much for Evelyn, and she ran over to where they stood, hoping to hear a fragment at least of what it read. She was given more than a fragment: The maestro read aloud.

"_Dear Sirs,_

_A warm hello to you both, and of course, the lovely star of your opera, miss Evelyn."_

"The _what?"_ Victoria shot. Evelyn's eyes grew wide with surprise, more than fear. The Opera Ghost knew her? But more than that the Opera Ghost was_ real?_

"_Allow me to introduce myself, I am the fabled Phantom of the Opera that has graced many a stage in my time, and now I take residence in this fine institution of your beautiful, if backward, London."_

'So the Ghost wanders?' Evelyn thought to herself. It made sense; it must be why she hadn't heard of him before in her years growing up in this opera house.

_"Do forgive me for imposing on you, but I am fond of the arts, on which subject I know you will agree, and I have a few humble requests to make of you. I know you have seen some of what I can do but let me assure you that those are merely trifles and my powers extend above simply moving about unseen,"_

Many of the cast and musicians looked about nervously, as if the Ghost would suddenly appear before them.

"_Simply know that I can promise each and every one of you safety within these walls, in exchange of course for a modest retainer, which as men of the world, I am sure you will understand. I demand only your English equivalent of 20 000 francs"_

So he was French…

She smiled in spite of herself.

"_Although 25 000 would be ideal, if you can manage it, of course. You may leave it on the third seat from the left in the second row, in box five at a monthly period, starting tomorrow._

_I look forward to Opening Night next month, and request that box five be kept empty for my use._

_I do implore you to take my demands seriously, as it would be incredibly unfortunate for there to be any loss of life, and I can not, of course, guarantee your safety if my demands are not met. I'm sure you will understand._

_Your most humble servant,_

_O.G."_

Evelyn was deaf to the shouting and outrage that met his letter and its ridiculous demands and assumptions. She just stood, staring that the noose that lay on the floor, and noticed something glitter from a little underneath it.

She pattered, unnoticed amongst the uproar, to where it lay and picked up the little object. It was a diamond ring, and she turned it over in her hand, fascinated, before slipping it into her pocket quickly so that Victoria wouldn't see it and confiscate it.

She then stood silently, watching the commotion unfeelingly, but running through her thoughts were the same thought that went through the minds of every man woman and child present that afternoon.

'Who is this man?'


	4. Chapter 4

**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon ~**

Of course they ignored the Phantom's letter.

He knew they weren't superstitious idiots, except perhaps some of the ballerinas, and this was cold hard money he wanted. They had reacted exactly the way he had suspected, he thought, as he traversed another of the tunnels that spider webbed inside the Opera House walls.

They needed a little more encouragement; last week with the dresses and violin had just been the beginning.

When he reached the end of the tunnel, he found a door that slid to the side and entered into a deserted ballet studio, from behind a mirror.

The dancers weren't due there for another ten minutes so he quickly went to work, drawing out from a sack slung over his shoulder a few handfuls of paper sheets. He went over to the corner and took the three wooden chairs that sat there, breaking one into smaller, lighter pieces and then arranged them around the other two. He then found an old wooden desk in another corner and pushed that up against the stack, arranging alight. The flames ate up the paper hungrily, starting to lick around the wood of the chairs. Once he was sure that the fire was well underway, he retreated into his tunnel, quickly escaping the growing flames.

When Evelyn arrived at the source of all the commotion, the fire had at last been put out, and all that was left were the charred ashes of any furniture that had been there, and the mirrors that had lined the walls now lay in pools of molten glass on the floor, the metal that had been behind them red hot and showing through.

Stage hands and musicians rushed around with water, attending to the still smoking remains, but the thing that drew Evelyn's attention was the huge cluster of people just outside the room.

Jocelyn, one of the older ballerinas came up to her, her tear-stained face drawn with horror.

"We didn't know there was a fire in there, Evie, and Georgia opened the door it all flew out into her face-" tears started trickling from her eyes again, and Evelyn hugged her wordlessly.

She moved over to where the people congregated and got a glimpse of Georgia, only nine years old, laying prone and crying on the ground, her arms covered in blistering burns. A few nurses that must have come over from the hospital a few streets over were administering balm to her burns, trying to get her to stand so they could get her somewhere calm and safe.

"Evie," Georgia said softly when she saw the girl's face. "It's the Opera Ghost."

Evelyn's eyes brimmed with tears, and she knelt by the tiny injured girl. "Georgie, I was only joking. I've never saw any opera ghost. I made it all up-"

"No he's really here Evie- I- I saw him- He wore a dark cape, and a white mask-"

"Shhh" Evelyn whispered to her, hugging her gently, trying not to touch the burns. Inside she was frightened, but she put on a brave face for little Georgia. She remembered the Opera Ghosts warning the week before, and how they had scorned it, and knew this had been his doing.

She heard the maestro's voice from behind her, speaking in hushed and desperate tones. She didn't turn around, for fear that he would realise she could hear him speak. She just listened hard with all her energy.

"Just give him the money, Moretti, you have more than enough to spare! Young Georgia could have died today, do you think that he would hesitate to actually kill someone after what you have seen here?"

"It's more the principle-" Moretti's voice sounded strained.

"Damn you and your principals Moretti!" the maestro fumed. He took a deep breath, and then tried another tack. "Think of all the intrigue and publicity news of a phantom would create."

Moretti paused, obviously deep in thought. The maestro's words had affected him. After what sounded like a brief moment of deliberation he made his mind up.

"It would be disastrous if anyone were to be killed."

"You are honourable, sir." The maestro said, his voice relieved. Evelyn turned when she heard the manager walk away, just in time to see the maestro pull a red stained knife out of his pocket and examine it worriedly. Evelyn's eyes widened.

Not noticing her gaze, he slipped the instrument back into his pocket and strode out of the room.

The nurses took Georgia away to the hospital to better treat her burns. Evelyn watched them go from the door into the hallway, hugging herself tightly to keep the worry at bay. The nurses had said the little girl would be fine, though they weren't sure if she would ever be able to perform in the opera again.

Once the carriage that carried her was out of sight, Evelyn's mind began to furiously tick over the things the little girl had said, with intrigue and almost excitement. Nothing like this had ever happened in her life before. A dark cape and a white mask…

"It is useless." Victoria declared despairingly, the day after the fire, throwing down her copy of the sheet music after Evelyn's sixteenth attempt at the line, "You will never be good enough,"

Evelyn bit her lip hard to stop herself from retorting, tears of hurt and exhaustion brimming in her eyes.

"You're nothing but a burden to me and this theatre," she went to sit, a hand covering her eyes in frustration.

Evelyn could hold it in no longer. Not after all these years.

"IF YOU DIDN'T WANT ME YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE SLEPT WITH "THAT _ACTOR_" THIRTEEN YEARS AGO!" she cried, mimicking the tone that her mother always used when talking about her father, one of disgust and contempt. Victoria rose from her seat and levelled her daughter a look.

"At least _I'm_ not the reason he left." She said, her words quiet and devastating. The words Evelyn had been going to say couldn't get past the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat at the accusation. Then she found words.

"If I'm the reason he left, why would he leave his most treasured possession to me? The only thing he gave to you was an ungrateful bastard brat." she said, blue eyes narrow. Victoria only laughed at this.

"You seriously believe that ribbon belonged to him?" Victoria cackled, pointing at the ribbon, "That was just a scrap I found in the store rooms and gave to you to stop your complaining" she paused to let the words sink in.

"You-" the little girl could find no words.

She turned and fled from the room, so as not to give her mother the satisfaction of seeing the tears of twelve years flood down her face.

'I _hate_ her' she thought furiously, as she slipped a panel aside in one of the old unused music studios and ran along the low tunnel it revealed. One of _her_tunnels.

'I hate _him_' she thought, tears burning her eyes. She stopped and took off the blue ribbon staring at it for a moment before hurling it at the floor and running away once again, towards her secret room in the upper storey of the theatre. The room with no doors.

The Phantom of the London Opera strolled cheerfully down another tunnel that Madame Giry had told him of, his pocket heavy with English money. He was pleased he had gotten through to them.

Something caught his eye as he walked, and he stopped in confusion. A blue ribbon lay on the floor of the tunnel, trodden into the dirt. His heart skipped a beat.

What? In _his_ tunnel?

He picked it up and examined it thoroughly. There was no mistaking it. It was that same unusual colour. 'What is this?' he thought gravely. It was then that he heard a soft sound echoing up the tunnel. It sounded like weeping. The weeping of a young girl. He tucked the ribbon into his pocket, a crease forming in his brow.

He followed the sound until he came across a panel barring his way. Cautiously, he slid it partially open, just enough so that he could peer inside.

The sound of sobbing was louder now, and he could see the source of it. The young soprano Evelyn sat amongst a nest of blankets cushions and trinkets, that glinted in the light from a small, dying cluster of candles stuck to the floor. She was curled in the foetal position with her head buried in her knees and her back towards where he stood.

Feeling for the young girl, he silently slid the panel closed once more, wishing he could somehow comfort her.

His mind inadvertently wandered to Christine, and how he had tried to help her... How he had taught her, protected her, opened his heart to her, and she had taken it sweetly and crushed it to pieces with a smile. He couldn't- _wouldn't_ let that happen again, and yet…this girl was not like Christine…

Without knowing how or why, he began to softly sing in a hypnotic voice he had used many times before; _"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance."_

There was a short silence in the room, before the panel suddenly slid back with a crack. There stood the girl, her face tear streaked, with more then a few tears still making their way down her cheeks, which she furiously wiped away. She glared at him, and then her face seemed to fall a little in surprise…or recognition…

"Oh no…" the girl, Evelyn murmured as she stared at the man who had somehow found what seemed to be her own secret room.

He felt slightly awkward at being uncovered, but stood tall, dark and intimidating, and Evelyn took a step backwards in uncertainty, the huge blue discs of her eyes fixed on his mask in apprehension, her body tensed.

"Who are you?" she demanded. Standing her ground now, glaring at him in rage. "And how did you find my room?" eyes narrowing distrustfully and arms folding, confirming his earlier suspicions. He looked at her, his eyes glittering with amusement. How could one so tiny have so much wrath?

"I'm sorry, _your_ room?" his voice was strange: warm and somehow rough round the edges, though it flowed easily like liquid. He spoke softly now, but she got the feeling his voice could be very powerful when he chose.

"That's right." She confirmed, placing her hands upon her hips. He laughed condescendingly to which she glowered again.

"Naive child, this Opera House belongs to me now." He said, smirking in satisfaction. It had been so much easier than he had anticipated.

"So you _are_ the one calling himself "Opera Ghost" then," she mused, looking him up and down critically. He felt strangely self conscious… After she had finished scrutinising from his white half-mask to his shoes, her head snapped back to look him dead in the eyes.

"You almost killed my friend." She accused bluntly. He thought back to the little blonde ballerina that had stupidly opened the smouldering door.

"Ah yes. Quite unfortunate." She waited for him to apologise, but he didn't. He just stood in the passage ways entrance, scrutinising her just as she did him. There were things about her that he hadn't noticed before, from his vantage point in box five.

Her eyes were even larger that he had previously thought, now that he saw them close up, and they were framed by sooty dark lashes. They looked angrily up at him now, and he could see her tiny hands balled into shaking fists at her sides. He wondered if those tiny fists would actually do any damage if she decided to punch him. They looked rather feeble, actually. He didn't comment, however. A thought struck him.

"You sing quite beautifully." He said softy and abruptly. The kindness of his words took her off guard and she took an unconscious half step back.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"You're voice." He repeated. "Its quite lovely."

She stared at him blankly. A thought he had tried to forget wormed it's way into his mind again. Uncertainly he began to voice it.

"Would you-" he cut himself off, deep in thought. Last time it had ended in disaster, and yet…this child was not Christine. He was not drawn to her in the same way. And in her voice he saw so much potential. Possibly even more than…

"What?" her voice jolted him out of his reverie.

"Um,"

'Eloquent,' he admonished himself sarcastically in his mind. She raised an eyebrow expectantly. All of a sudden, his mind came to a decision. In an instant he had stepped out of the doorway, taking her arm, and leading her further into the room, away from the door.

"My dear Evelyn-" he began, his voice laden with charm.

"Evie." She shot, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Evie then. How long have you lived here in the Royal London Opera House?" he inquired.

"I was born here," she said, part of her mind wondering vaguely why she was telling him. He smelt of roses and old parchment... "I've lived here my whole life,"

"Well I'm actually new to this Opera House, I only arrived here in London a few weeks ago," he wondered vaguely why he was telling her this…perhaps to make her trust him, perhaps to make himself trust her…

"You have a French accent." She commented simply. 'Eloquent' she thought acerbically to herself. He, however, laughed.

"I used to live underneath the Opera Populaire in Paris," he said, nodding. Her eyes lit up with curiosity. The Opera Populaire… That had been destroyed in a fire not long ago... Did this man have anything to do with it?

"What made you decide to come here?" she asked inquisitively. She felt his arm stiffen. Curious...

"That is unimportant." He said sharply. That was unusual, she thought. He had been so at ease a moment before. She thought back to the fire of last week. Was this man unstable?

The thought sowed unease in the pit of her stomach, but something about the man intrigued her. How could she not be intrigued? This stranger practically oozed mystery.

It probably had something to do, too, with the fact that she could only see part of his face. The other half was obscured by that simple yet elegant white mask. The half she could see was rather handsome, too. His sharp eyes were a green-blue colour, and his thick, slicked back hair a raven black. He had a strong jaw and the hand that gripped her arm was strong too, but gloved. She wondered why he covered his skin up so much. She realised he had already started to talk again and paid attention.

"-had the fortune to teach the leading soprano at the Paris Opera-"

"Christine Daae?" she asked suddenly, recalling something she had been told a while ago. She saw his jaw clench and was a little confused. She then shrugged it off. Stories of Chirstine Daae didn't really interest her. "Mr. Ghost, this is interesting and all, but what are you leading up to?" she cut off the reply that had formed on his lips.

He looked at her, perplexed. No child, or in fact any other person had ever spoken to him with such little respect. Not that he talked to many children…Still, this one was unusual…

"Well, Evie," he began, going to sit on a cusion in her little nest. She looked a little defensive and protective at the invasion of her space, her eyes sharpening, but the curiosity overcame it. She sat beside him. He continued.

"I listened to you performing the other day, that aria…" he searched his memory for the name of it, but couldn't find it, "And in spite of popular opinion, I found it enchanting," She didn't let how his words had affected her show on her face. "Although there is a vast room for improvement-"

"So I'm often told." She replied a little coldly, her arms hugging her waist in some sort of subconscious act of defence. And I'm sure you know so very much about music." She added, a touch disdainfully.

"More than you could ever dream," He replied seriously, his sharp eyes boring into her wide blue ones. She fell silent, but didn't flinch or look away from his gaze. Brave girl…

"You interest me," he said honestly, "Your voice has great potential, I'm not sure if you realise this or not. What I'm offering you, Evie," no going back now… "Is to teach you to sing, just as I did miss Daae," she noticed he flinched slightly at the name, and wondered why. "I can make your voice parallel to the angels singing in heaven-"

He was interrupted by her laughing. The tone was patronizing, but he detected a hint of melancholy. Her eyes were no longer open and curious, but deadened, making her seem older somehow. She stood and moved to face the corner, her back to him.

"You have chosen entirely the wrong person for your offer, Mr Ghost," she said. "You would do better to choose someone who would actually _want_ to learn to sing parallel to the angels in heaven."

The Phantom was angered.

"You think yourself above my teachings?" he accused, his voice rising, as he stood. She turned to him, her eyes distressed.

"Sir, no!" she said, seeming very troubled at the allegation. Perhaps even a little fearful at his sudden anger. "I'm sure you are one of the greatest musicians that ever lived, if what you tell me about teaching Christine Daae is true. Its just-"

She bit her lip, uncertain of how to tell the man, whom, she understood from her conversation with him and the content of his letter, to be a great lover and even master of the arts.

"Yes?"

"I find no joy in music."

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**Authors Notes: Dun dun duuuuhn! The little girl hates music? D: How will the Phantom react to Evie's declaration? read the next chapter to find out! :D hehe.**

**Just a few extra things, thanks to anyone who reviewed the story ^^ Sorry about the music jargon that seems to be a little prominent so far in the story, I didn't expect there to be so much. :D Also I'm gonna be out of state for a week so writing and uploading will be very difficult during that time...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Authors Notes: Sorry I've been so slow(don't kill me Suzie!), but I really got stuck with this chapter(damn adjectives!) ... Anyhow, here it is, we get a little insight into Evie's past, and the Phantom gets to be angsty again! I hope you like it. ^_^**

**Please review! :D**

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**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon ~**

The Phantom was dumbstruck.

He said nothing but just stared at her. She didn't notice; she was looking down at her hands, which were busily picking away at the stitching on the sleeve of her dress. Her brow was furrowed in concentration- or frustration.

"I _hate _music." She muttered.

There was a long silence that followed, while she picked at her sleeve. Then the Phantom found his voice at last.

"- Hate-?" She looked up at him, the determined resentment in her eyes silently confirming his question.

He thought back to the first time he had seen her. He thought about the way her voice had soared almost effortlessly through the aria, a beautiful sound, trying to recall the expression on her face. He knew she hadn't been smiling. The look on her face had actually resembled…irritation?

What the girl had said made perfect sense, and yet, the Phantom just couldn't understand it at all. He simply looked at her with the most perplexed expression on his face. Then he frowned.

"How?" he demanded incredulously. She opened her mouth to say something then closed it, biting her lip and casting her eyes down. He could see tears stand out in her eyes as she recalled a memory, as she saw something that he couldn't.

"How Evie?" he repeated, softer now.

"It's none of your business!" she spat angrily and he fell silent, frowning in confusion and concern as she turned her back on him, moving to her corner and sitting. Her words stung a little and he half turned from her, considering disappearing, but the thought left just as quickly as it had come. He needed to know.

He quietly came to kneel beside her, amongst the blankets and cushions. She didn't protest, but turned her head so he couldn't see her face.

"Why do you hate music Evie?" he whispered gently. She shook her head, hand going to her eyes. Was she crying?

She turned to him, but her eyes were clear as she looked into his own, which were full of suppressed curiosity. She looked down once more, as if trying to remember something.

"I'm sure I must have loved it once," she began softly. "But I can't remember so far back." She looked back up at him uncertainly and he made a tiny gesture for her to continue. She hesitated, then began to speak again.

"Well- My earliest memories of music are of my mother making me sing... It was always the same thing, over and over again... until it had no meaning anymore," her voice gained a bitter edge.

"Until my voice was so hoarse I couldn't even speak... Then she would tell me I couldn't do it. That I'm not good enough."

Tears of anger formed in her eyes now. He understood now, but she hadn't finished yet.

"But she kept making me anyway. Every single day since I was old enough. I needed to reach the level she saw as 'good enough' if it killed me. Sometimes on a Sunday I wouldn't have to practise all day." She added, a little quieter.

"I'd go and play with the stage hand boys. She hated that. She said I was picking up their accent so I wasn't allowed to talk to them anymore. So she trained me to speak properly, as well as sing properly."

Somehow she had begun to totally open up to this mysterious stranger. No one had ever listened to her before, even the maestro who was the kindest to her of all the people she knew. The ballet girls preferred to talk, not listen. The Opera Ghost, however, simply sat in silence, gazing intently at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Listening.

He smelt of roses, and the pungent aroma made her a little dizzy as she told him everything.

"Sometimes I tried to run away." She said, her eyes blank and her thoughts far away. "But she would always find me." She said, her voice catching. "And-" she broke off, a few tears trickling down her face.

He could see now, as he looked intently at her, discolouration in parts of her skin. Bruises old and new, mainly on her hands, and some on her face. His eyes widened in understanding and shock.

Unwelcome images of his childhood assaulted him now. Of the travelling fair and the freak show. Of the knotted rope. He closed his eyes against them. When he opened them once more, she was looking at him questioningly. A thought came to him.

"Surely your father would have objected." If he had been the girl's father, he wouldn't have let the woman touch her.

She laughed through her drying tears.

"Who knows? He left us before I was even born." her words were dead. Like she had spent her whole life consciously _not_ caring. _Not_ caring, with all her might.

He saw the hurt and anger in her eyes as she spoke. This he understood. Understood far too well. His thoughts reached back to his mother. She hadn't loved him, he had been feared and loathed by her until the day they had parted. It had been the same with the people at the fair, the people that came to see him beaten and humiliated. And had laughed.

Then the Opera. Madame Giry, Christine, the only other family he had ever really known, had feared and hated him.

Christine… He had been so close… That was what hurt the most.

But he had still had his music.

He looked at the girl where she sat, her head cast down. When he had been her age, he had already begun to compose. In the day time he had played on his organ, and at night he roamed the opera house freely, it had been his domain, his playground.

It had been different at night, the air less dense and cloying than in the day, sweeter and fresher, alive somehow with that energy that one only found late at night. He had breathed it in, relished it. The deserted halls and stage had glowed somehow with blue light, once his eyes had adjusted. He had been sure things, creatures, lurked in the shadowy corners, and he had battled them in his mind. That stage had been transformed into so many things; castles, pirate ships, anything he had read of in the story books the young Madame Giry smuggled him.

Always playing on his own.

That was a difference between them. There had been no one to tell him what to do, unlike this child, Evie, who seemed to be her mother's slave. Not allowed to make friends with whom she wanted, forced to sing when she hated it…

She didn't even have music.

Maybe in teaching her he might reinspire the love for music she must have once had. But also by giving this child that gift, the greatest of all in his opinion, he might atone for his past mistakes. He might not be bothered when he dreamt, with images of the burning opera house, the look on Christine's face when Raoul had come to save her, the people screaming for blood…

He shook the thoughts away. No, this he wouldn't do for himself. This he would undertake only for the benefit of the young girl. Besides, he would undoubtedly be a much better tutor than Victoria, and this child could go so far...

He blinked himself back into reality and found that the little girl was staring at his face with a look of muted awe. He realised that as he had been remembering his childhood adventures in the Opera Populaire he had been smiling.

Not the smirks of satisfaction she had seen earlier, but a real, true smile that lit up his face with warmth. Something unfamiliar to her.

He felt slightly embarrassed, having been silent for a long time, but he shook that off and turned to her, looking her dead in the eye, almost business-like. He took her tiny hands in his, large, gloved ones. She jumped at the movement, but didn't shy away, probably out of sheer stubbornness. It was apparent he was about to try to make some sort of deal. When he spoke, however, there was no inflection of a question, he spoke as if his word were final.

"Let me teach you Evie. Let me train and prepare you opening night. When I am finished with you, you will be a greater success than any singer ever was. The heavens themselves will weep when they hear you sing. You will be cast in every leading role for decades in any Theatre in Europe." She looked away, her expression reluctant and she began to open her mouth to say something in protest, but he stopped her. "_and_, as Opera Ghost, I will ensure that Miss Victoria is aware you no longer require her lessons,"

That threw her.

"What?"

Slowly her eyes widened, and lit up in a way that made the Phantom smile in satisfaction. He said nothing, but the earnest look in his eyes confirmed her question.

"You can do that?" She asked quietly, timidly, her voice breathless with restrained hope. He liked this change in her, from a stubborn defeatist, it made her seem younger somehow. He laughed, easily now.

"My dear, I am rather disappointed in your lack of faith," He didn't sound disappointed, and she was having trouble keeping the smile from her face, "Have you forgotten already all I have done in the few short weeks I have been here? For one, I've persuaded your manager, Moretti to pay me a ridiculous amount of money" he laughed again, this time in bewildered amusement, as if he couldn't understand how a person could be so easily manipulated, "So that he can sleep without fear at night. You think I wont be able to scare your mother just the same?"

She grinned.

"Well _I'm_ not afraid of you." She declared.

'Not yet' the Phantom thought a little sadly, but he smiled back at her.

"Then will you, Evie permit me to teach you to sing?" The offer was final now.

She laughed a little silvery laugh and curtsied mockingly to him.

"I would be honoured, oh famed Opera Ghost." She quipped. Then she looked at him hard. "Provided you keep your end of the bargain, of course."

"Of course," he said, standing, briefly shaking the creases from his cape. It had red satin on the inside, she noted with a smile. "Tomorrow night, after rehearsals, go to box five." He instructed. At his words she grinned.

"And then where to?" she inquired. She knew the secret of the chairs.

"You will see," he replied, smiling enigmatically. "I will take care of the matter of your mother soon enough." He then assured her, and was answered with a beaming smile and another curtsy.

"Until then, Evie," he said, half turning towards the door, then hesitated, looking back at her once more, with an indefinable expression on his face. He added, softly;

"Stay safe."

He disappeared before she could say anything more.

For a few moments she stared at the tunnel entranceway through which he had just left, then went back to her nest and sat down. She began again to pull apart the stitching of her sleeve, deep in thought. She wouldn't be able to hide here much longer. Soon she would have to go back and face her mother once more.

But this time, she didn't care. The Phantom of the Opera was on her side.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: Wooo! Another chapter up! (aren't you proud of me? ^_^) Here we have Evie's first singing lesson with the Phantom.**

**I'd like to point out that the song she is singing ("Caro mio ben") was written by Tommaso Giordani somewhere around 1730-1806 and so technically falls in the correct time-frame. *is pleased with self* How these two came across it is anyone's guess, I suppose :P**

**Enjoy! (and review!)**

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**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon ~**

Evie sat quietly on one of the red velvet seats of box five, once rehearsals for the day were done and night had fallen.

Waiting for him to arrive.

No one was around; they'd all gone home to sleep. Her mother thought that she was in bed right now, Evie thought gleefully as she pulled a pair of white gloves over the fresh bruises that covered her knuckles. The result of her last disobedience. She giggled softly to herself.

Victoria had been bewildered and infuriated at her behaviour. She couldn't understand why, no matter how many times her hands were rapped, the girl simply wouldn't stop smiling.

And now, here she sat, waiting for a Phantom to come fetch her.

She giggled again.

It all seemed so bizarre.

In the back of her mind she suspected that more than half the reason she had actually come there was to prove to herself that he wasn't just a dream, that her mind hadn't been playing tricks on her. That it had been real…

But where was he?

Everyone had gone home at least half an hour ago, and still her Opera Ghost was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he wanted to be extra sure there would be no one floating around after hours, when he came. Still, he was taking his time…

Minutes ticked by.

Impatiently, Evie stood and began to pace along the mahogany rail, her skirts rustling quietly with each movement. Maybe he wasn't going to come at all. Or maybe something unexpected had come up and he was only running late. Maybe he had forgotten about her. She pushed the unwelcome thought away. Maybe something had happened to him…again she pushed the thought away.

She heard a click behind her.

She whirled and saw him emerging from a tunnel one of the chairs had sprung forth to reveal, a flickering oil lamp swinging in his hand. It threw a dramatic light onto his mask. She gave him the most reproachful look she could manage in the face of his powerful presence.

"I was beginning to think that you weren't going to come." She said, putting her little hands on her hips.

"My dear, I cannot open the tunnel entranceway when you are sitting on it." He replied, his expression contorting into something of an irritated grimace.

"Oh."

The expression on her own face was such a delightful combination of surprise, embarrassment, and sheepish apology that the Phantom could not help but burst into laughter.

"Never mind, we still have time."

The embarrassment she had felt at his prior declaration was pushed aside by the satisfaction she felt at hearing that warm, rough voice again. She smiled.

He held out a gloved hand to her, half turning towards the tunnel. It almost seemed to her that by taking it, she would be entering into a deal that she could not back out of. A binding agreement that could not be broken.

So she took it without a second thought, of course.

Her hand was gloved, he noticed, and wondered why. Perhaps she was cold. That would certainly explain the long, velvety navy-blue cloak that she wore. It was the most elegant thing he had yet to see her wear, and it made her skin seem all the more pale, even translucent, by the lamplight. He would get a fire started, when they arrived.

She looked a little apprehensive, so he smiled encouragingly back at her, as he began to lead her down the steps that led deep underneath the opera house.

"Have you ever been down this tunnel before Evie?" he asked curiously. He was aware that she knew of some of the passages, that much was certain from her inhabitance of the little, doorless room. But he surely would have noticed if anyone else had been using the main tunnel to the clock tower…

"Once." she replied hesitantly. "When I was quite little. I got part of the way along and then my candle went out. I had to find my way back in the dark." He noticed with interest her voice wavered a little when she spoke the last sentence. She then laughed a lighthearted little laugh. "Never went down there since."

"So you don't know where it leads then?"

"Not yet," she quipped, the flippancy in her voice a little forced, he thought.

He wondered if she was afraid of the dark.

It would certainly be ironic.

He made to help the little girl down the steep and narrow stairway, only to have his hand batted away and be informed that she could manage quite well enough on her own, thank you very much.

Bemused, the Phantom complied with her wish; however, as they reached the middle of the tunnel, and the lamp flickered and died out, Evie stopped walking.

"Phantom?" she called nervously into the silence. Her voice was high and wavering. "I can't- see."

"I'm here." He said softly, his voice much closer than she had thought. She yelped in shock and he caught her hand. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm _not_ afraid!" she declared stubbornly. "I just can't see."

He laughed. "Of course. How foolish of me."

"What are you doing?" she cried out as she felt something behind her knees push her over and then lift her from the ground.

"Put me _DOWN!"_ she ordered, whacking his arm in protest, her voice an octave higher on the last word.

"My dear," he began, his voice low and full of suppressed amusement. "It was evident you weren't going to move on your own, and I do want to reach our destination sometime before morning."

Her curiosity was sparked. "Where exactly is that?"

"Hush."

She let him carry her in silence, until he lowered her to the ground so she could stand once more.

"It's still dark." She pointed out.

"I'm aware." He replied. There was a snap and a flicker, and there was light once more. She watched him light the oil lamp once again and crush the match under his boot.

In the new light she could see they were standing on a platform suspended by ropes. She was curious, but she kept quiet as he silently handed her the lamp and unhooked a rope. When he pulled down on it hard, the platform was lifted a few feet.

When he had pushed the trapdoor open, lifted the young girl up through it, then pulled himself up after her, he was able to gauge her reaction to her new surroundings.

He stood back and watched her as she stood silently, lips slightly parted. Her hands were clasped in front of her as she slowly rotated on the spot, her eyes working furiously to take in all the wonders of the elaborate little room, lit by a thousand candles. Then she caught sight of the clock face.

A girlish squeal of glee escaped her lips, and she half-skipped over to it, gazing out at the lamp-lit square, her tiny hand pressed against the glass, leaving a print on the condensation. She glanced back at him, grinning.

"What a nice lair you have here, Mr. Ghost."

When she turned back around, she saw he had gotten a feeble little fire started in the grate, which grew steadily stronger as he added more wood to it.

He came over to the organ, taking off his cape and hanging it on the edge of the stool. She followed suit, now that it was becoming warmer, to reveal a simple white cotton dress, with the sleeves cut off at the elbows, but still, he noticed, she did not take off the gloves. Deciding to puzzle it out later, he sat at the organ and opened the lid, one hand going to his mask.

"Won't you take that mask off, now?" Evie asked curiously.

"No." he said quietly, a strange, almost grave change coming over him. "Never." Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. "Sing for me." He commanded, business-like once again.

She was taken by surprise.

"Sing what?"

He sighed.

"The first thing that comes into your head." He offered.

So, naturally, she took a minute or two to think of all the songs she knew, then a minute more to choose one. She looked up and smiled.

"Got one." She said, triumphantly.

"What is the starting note?"

"G."

"High?"

"Yes."

He played it for her and she hummed it, getting it into her mind. A moment passed and then she began to sing, in a breathtakingly sweet falling series of notes.

"_Caro mio ben_

_Credimi almen_

_Senza di te_

_Languisce il cor."_

Her Italian accent was quite exquisite and he smiled; the tune was familiar. When she began the bridge of the song he played the accompaniment on his organ and she started a little in surprise, skipping a beat and having to pick up in the next bar.

_"Il tuo fedel_

_Sospira ognor_

_Cesa_ _crudel_

_Tanto_ _rigor."_

Now she began to free up a little more and become more confident with the song adding little flourishes on the ends of line.

The song came to a quiet and graceful finish, and the Phantom didn't bother to play bother to play the last few bars of accompaniment, but instead turned to his new protégé.

"Quite a nice attempt, but be careful of that vibrato, this song is intended to be pure and sweet, so try not to let you voice quaver so much, especially on those high, loud notes."

She looked a little confused, like what he said had contradicted something she had been taught before.

"But mother said-"

His voice was firm; "Your mother is no longer your teacher. I am, and you will follow my instructions."

She nodded dutifully, her hands again clasped in front of her.

"Also, you stumbled when I began to play."

She grinned, sheepishly.

"This is not humorous, Evie. When you are performing in an opera, anything may happen. Someone in the audience may cough, an instrument play the wrong note, a piece of set, may break and come crashing down-"

"A chandelier may-"

"_And,_ you must carry on as if it in no way affects you, as if it is not even there. _You can let nothing break your concentration."_

"What if the piece of set is right above my head?" she quizzed. He sighed and inclined his head towards her, acknowledging her point.

"Then you have my permission to attempt to get out of the way. But the point remains, Evie. To the audience, the whole opera rests on your shoulders."

She gulped.

"I knew this was a bad idea." She sighed.

"You will be more than ready by opening night, Evie. I will personally make sure of that." He said. His words were so sure, so full of unquestionable confidence that the little soprano couldn't help but smile.

"I believe you." Her smile was infectious.

"Now, sing the song again."

"Yes, sir." She said, giving a little salute.

Halfway through the song he motioned for silence. His hand covered his mouth, like he was thinking. She studied his expression; had she done something wrong? Of course, due to the mask she could only see a small section of his face.

It annoyed her.

She wanted to go rip the mask off but somehow thought that he wouldn't take very kindly to that. He suddenly sat up straight, like something had just occurred to him, jolting her back into reality.

"You _do_ know what you are singing about don't you?" he asked, almost curiously.

She laughed incredulously.

"What? It's in flaming Italian!"

"So you have no idea what you are saying?" he asked, bemused.

"Not a clue."

He laughed. "Sing the first line." She obeyed.

"_Caro mio_ _ben."_

"My dear beloved." He translated.

"_Credimi almen"_

"Please, believe me."

"_Senza di_ _te"_

"Being without you."

_"Languisce il cor_"

"Languishes the heart." He finished. "Your love has left you, willingly I might add, and they are never coming back. In this song you are imploring them to come back to you, but they can't hear, and this distresses you immensely."

She blinked at him.

"You've never been in love." It was almost a statement, rather than a question.

"N…o?"

"Of course not." He muttered, like he was admonishing himself. She was only a child, of course she wouldn't understand. "I'll try to explain." He began slowly, and she sat down on the spot, her skirt fanning out around her on the floor as she looked up at him attentively.

"Its- not dissimilar to knives…" he said, quietly and grimly, his face dark with some memory he saw in the wooden floorboards. "White hot knives. Twisting and driving into your heart with each and every beat."

'Colourful.' Evie mused to herself.

"And it _never stops_…"

He looked up and met her eyes, a complicated expression was on her face. It seemed to be a mixture of perplexity, curiosity, suspicion and amusement.

"What _happened_ to you in Paris, Mr. Ghost?"

He ignored her.

"The writer of this song," he continued, "felt this pain. Can you not hear it in the melody?"

"Hear pain?" she repeated, frowning in confusion. "You can't hear pain, you feel it."

He sighed, then spoke with inspiring fervour. "Then _feel_ _it._"

But her brow only furrowed in distress. "I don't understand." She said, looking on the verge of tears. He sighed again.

"It's alright Evie, I am not angry with you. Just stand up."

Obediently, she followed his instructions.

"Now," he began, slowly and clearly, so she would understand. "Sing the piece once more, but this time, with _feeling_."

He saw her eyes widen in comprehension, and felt a teacher's satisfaction. The maestro and her mother must have used that same phrase before. He smiled, and began the introduction.

There was certainly a change.

She used her voice like a painter would use their medium, painting the air somehow a million shades and colours of pure, sweet music. Her voice would caress the words, envelop the vowels in someway and stress certain words, certain syllables so delicately, so exquisitely, deriving such meaning from the words that hadn't been there before.

It was unnerving.

There was no expression on her face at all. Only in her voice.

It marred the song for the Phantom, where he sat playing at the organ. It seemed unnatural somehow, more contrived. Like she had made a calculated measurement of what the song should sound like. If he closed his eyes he could believe the emotion in the music. When he could only hear, it was so beautiful and real. But inside he knew it wasn't.

She was performing.

Abruptly, the song was over.

"You felt nothing, didn't you." He accused her quietly. She started, taken aback and stung.

"_I don't understand what you mean_!" she cried desperately, her fists forming balls at her side.

He didn't answer her, simply looked at the organ keys his expression brooding and even sullen, but his mind obviously at work. His endeavour would obviously be much more difficult that he had thought.

"You're right, I feel nothing." She muttered after a while, her face turned towards the clock face, scowling out into the night. He was still silent, not having moved a muscle since she spoke.

"Its just notes." The little girl explained quietly, almost to herself, and he turned to her, his eyes searching her face, which wore an expression of frustration. "Just notes in the air, that don't really serve a purpose, save to trick people into believing in something that doesn't exist. Something beautiful, behind it all that isn't real. There's nothing behind it. Just empty notes."

He still said nothing, but simply stared at her, and she stared back, their eyes boring into each other's. Trying to understand, grasping at something not quite substantial, something just beyond their reach. Trying to solve the mystery.

Evie's eyes fluttered, almost imperceptibly and she swayed a little on her feet. The Phantom leapt to his, holding her arm to steady her.

"But I've kept you much too long." He murmured, almost to himself. "You must be exhausted."

Evie smiled gratefully and sleepily up at him. It struck him a little odd, how she placed so much trust in him… He was quite unused to it.

"I wouldn't mind being carried 'nymore now, " she said softly, her words slurring a little in her weariness.

He chuckled quietly to himself before gathering her up in his arms as he had done before, to carry her back to the opera house across the square


	7. Chapter 7

**Authors Notes: I know, I know, no excuses for such extreme lateness as I. But hey, My computer was is computer rehab and I couldn't get my files off it. It's the COMPUTER MAN's fault not mine! Anyway, this here it is, you get to meet Gerry and Baz! Both of whom should be making more appearances later in the story. I hope you like it. :D**

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**~White Lily, Blue ribbon~**

A week had passed, in the London Opera, and Evie had improved. Each day she would attend rehearsals for the Opera, which were fast becoming a hive of activity; she sometimes found herself singing as her costume was being pinned around her, as ballerinas danced around sets-in-construction.

The maestro now kept a little white handkerchief on his person at all times, for whenever he needed to mop his flushed and sweaty forehead. There was always someone shouting something over the music, always someone fixing something that had come loose, someone arguing about some musical line, and Victoria, cool and aloof, prowled amongst the performers, correcting this and criticising that. Moretti often appeared now, too, 'overseeing the rehearsal' as he put it, 'keeping track of progress', until Victoria irritably shooed him from the building.

Evie tried to stay out of Victoria's way for the most part. When ever she met the older woman's eyes of late they would take on a look that could eat away at metal, her lips would pale and her jaw would clench.

Evie didn't know _what_ the Phantom had done, but only two nights after his first lesson, when Evie had appeared at Victoria's study door, she was greeted with a violent:

"Get out of my sight. And don't let me catch you around here ever again. Don't look so shocked, oh, I _know_ you know why, feral _brat._"

The door was promptly shut in her face. Evie wandered away from the door in a state of vacant cheerfulness.

Since then, at rehearsals of late, Victoria would often pass right over her. Evie found she could cope quite well with this situation, watching Victoria vent her anger on other people, dancers, musicians, acting as if Evie wasn't even there. And when Evie did do something wrong, he face would strain in frustration, but then she would turn and look around at the rafters above her, with something like fear in her eyes. She would never make a comment. Evie found she quite liked this turn of events.

Then, when night fell, and everyone left the theatre, Evie would don her cloak and go to box five, where she would be met by the Phantom of the London Opera. Then she would be taken to the clock tower across the square, where her _real_ instruction would begin.

The Phantom was actually a wonderful teacher. His points were clear, concise, and he had a vast knowledge of music, singing and techniques, which made Evie wonder once who he had learned from; where he had studied.

He honed her skills, fine tuning her technical work to the sharpest degree, pushing her often to her limit. It was paying off, too, she was fast becoming a soprano more than worthy of the lead she had been given; her range had even widened a tone and a half in one short week.

There was still something he was unsatisfied about, however. Something obscure he pursued with furious perseverance that she didn't understand, but she didn't let it bother her too much.

Over the week they had developed something of an understanding. Not quite a friendship, but a companionship none the less. A partnership of sorts, striving towards a common goal. It grew clear to Evie that he was unused to working, to living so close with another person, so much of the time.

Still, she tolerated his little quirks, outbursts and awkward absurdities, and faithfully showed up in box five each evening without fail.

On one such evening Evie sat waiting on the plush red seats of box five, playing with the sleeve of a new deep scarlet dress, the stitching of which was yet to properly deteriorate to her liking. She liked it better than her other dresses, it had a large bow at the back that reminded her of the ribbon she had lost a while ago. Her favourite ribbon. She regretted casting it away now; when she tilted her head forwards, her hair fell into her eyes.

Evie had almost pulled apart the first stitch when she heard a noise coming from the door.

She stayed very still, hoping it was just a cleaner or someone come to check everything was locked up. Hopefully they would check and be on their way. Without noticing her. She held her breath.

The door creaked open and she turned with wide eyes to see the figures who entered.

"EVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!"

The tiny bundle bolted towards her, wrapped up in a green shirt that was too big for him, his bright amber eyes shining in excitement. She stood and the impact of the boy hitting her stomach bowled her over, and she hugged him tightly, back resting against the chairs, breathing in the smell of his sandy hair.

"Well hello, Gerry," she laughed quietly into it.

"Evening, stranger." floated a pleasant, tenor voice with a cockney accent from the doorway. The voice of Sebastian the stage hand. He leant casually against the door frame watching the little boy and the girl, amusement sparkling in his light green eyes. Evie picked up the six-year-old in her arms and rested him on her hip, turning to face the curly haired youth in the doorway.

"Sebastian.' She greeted him simply, a little smile gracing her lips.

"You look different." he remarked.

"Oh." She looked down at the dress. "Yeah its new."

"No, no, I mean the-" he pointed to his curly brown hair, and it took her a moment to realise he was talking about the lack of her ribbon.

"Oh, right. Yes, I lost it." she said sadly, pushing her hair out of her face with her one free hand. "What are you doing here so late?" she asked him.

"Gerry lost his bear. He can't go to sleep without it. Neither can I, funnily enough, when he's howling in my ear." she laughed at that.

"Eviiiie,' sang the little boy in her arms. "Come play with us!" he tugged on a strand of her hair which she pulled from his grip, a little reluctantly.

"I can't Gerry, what if my mother turns up."

Sebastian frowned in annoyance. "Your mother left hours ago." he said, a little standoffish.

"Yeah Baz, well I thought you'd left hours ago too." Evie snapped, setting Gerry back on his feet again.

"Then what in gods name are you doing up here, if it wasn't waiting for the pleasure of our company?" he asked sarcastically, grinning his crooked grin.

Evie said nothing, but simply glared at him, her lips pressed together tightly as if holding something back. Sebastian grin slid off his face. She had secrets from him now, and he hated that.

There had been a time when he had known more about her than anyone in the world, you might have called them thick as thieves, and then Evie came to him one morning saying that she was forbidden to talk to him from that day. He still didn't understand why, and it had made him more than a little angry. But he pushed it aside now.

"Come on, Evie," he pleaded, his voice persuasive and his eyes tender. "She's not here. For now, you're free." he laughed. "Just come with us, have fun for once."

She wanted so badly to go with them, and would have, had she not known the Phantom was on his way. They had to leave before he arrived.

"You should go, Baz." She said, brutally to the point, her face belying her wish that she could join them. He couldn't know she wanted to stay with him.

He recoiled as if she had struck him. Then he held his hand out to Gerry and the little boy took it, turning away from her.

"What happened to you, Evie?" Baz muttered. His back was to her so he couldn't see the tears stand out in her eyes.

Then he was gone.

A couple of minutes later the Phantom emerged from behind the red velvet seat. He noticed the tracks of a few old tears still shining on her face, and frowned in confusion. She turned away from him so her face was obscured from view.

"You're late."

"I was liberating a piano from one of the old ballet studios. What is the matter?" he asked, ever to the point.

"It's nothing important.' she said quietly; half-heartedly, standing to follow him. He took her hand and smiled kindly at her.

"That dress you are wearing is quite lovely. Is it new?"

She couldn't help but smile back. "Yes."

The Phantom watched the hustle and bustle of the rehearsals from the relative serenity and seclusion of his box.

His whole attention was fixed on his protoge, who stood nervously on the edge of the stage near the music pit. He took in her stance critically. She would need to relax more. He would correct that later.

Moretti and the maestro, however were not listening to her critically, but were immersed in the sound she produced. In their rapture they failed to notice little mistakes she made, due to the magic her lilting voice cast over all the cast and crew that had stopped to listen to her. Over the past week it had gained a rare, sweet quality to it that they hadn't heard before.

The Phantom smirked.

They didn't know where it had come from either. They believed her tuition still came from Victoria. That thought made him frown a little in annoyance. No matter. The time would come when the rest of the Opera House was aware of his role in training their young soprano.

Evie finished and the people around her broke into applause. She blushed a little and smiled bashfully as people called out encouragement and praises.

Then Victoria stalked into the room. Something had really gotten to her today, her usually pale face was flushed in frustration.

"Bar eight. Three, no, four mistakes. Fix them." she said shortly.

Evie said nothing but threw an "I-told-you-so" glance in the direction of box five.

"Oh, come now, Victoria, there's no need to be so short with the girl." Moretti said reproachfully. "You can't deny that she has improved."

"Her improvement is immaterial. She _must be perfect."_

The Phantom gripped the railing of box five in jaw-clenching anger. "You wear my patience thin, woman." he muttered under his breath and then stormed from the auditorium.

As Opening Night drew nearer and nearer, Evie spent more and more time in the clock tower with the Phantom, and by this time she had made herself quite at home there. To his amusement she had moved her nest from the her secret room in the Opera House to one unoccupied corner of his lair, adding to the pile trinkets and fabrics she had found amongst _his_ debris.

One night her shoes lay forgotten on the pile, and she waltzed absently around the room in circles, her stockinged feet sliding effortlessly on the wooden floorboards as she sang. She wandered over to the rosebushes by the clock face and watered them with a little silver pitcher she liberated from the kitchens, singing as The Phantom played.

"Please concentrate Evie."

She sighed and sat next to him on the stool as he played to introduction to the piece and she copied his finger movements an octave higher on the keyboard. The Phantom stopped playing in exasperation.

"What has gotten into you this evening, Evie?"

She opened her mouth to speak, and then hesitated.

"Um..._well_..." she stood and paced, twirling when she reached the end of each stride. The Phantom's expression was one of perplexity.

"You know before, when you, um, popped out for a moment?"

She edged over to his large wardrobe, her eyes guilty. "Well, I uh, was sort of _curious_,"

"What did you hope to achieve by rummaging through my wardrobe?" He inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I-" she cut herself off and looked at her shoes, a delightful blush creeping across her cheeks. "Well- you- you just always seem to wear exactly the same thing- and I wanted to find out...um..."

By the time she stopped talking his face was in his hands and he made a noise of exasperation in the back of his throat. After a moment, he looked up.

"Well," he began slowly, cautiously. "What did you unearth?" 'What's the damage?'

All her previous guilt was suddenly gone and she grinned proudly.

She opened the wardrobe door, reaching down the very back and withdrew a costume of deep, deep red velvet, gold brocade and the Phantom felt sick to his stomach as images of whirling dancers and masked revellers from his past assaulted him. His expression, however, remained entirely grave-faced and serious.

Evie's grin grew even wider as from behind the costume she withdrew a skull mask, of amazing quality and craftsmanship. All the while she was examining the look on his face, hoping for clues.

"So, naturally," she said, "I'm quite curious."

"Is that so." the Phantom remarked, in complete disinterest. "It's time for practise." he said shortly, turning back to the organ. Evie was left quite miffed.

"I _will_ find out what happened you know. What happened in Paris." She declared stubbornly.

"I wish you the best of luck." he replied, his tone unchanged.

"You know," Evie began angrily, her voice rising. "I find it quite unfair that I tell you absolutely everything about _my_ life, yet you tell me _nothing_ about yourself. Even when I ask."

The Phantom did not reply.

"I don't even know your name." she added quietly. Despairingly.

"You do not tell me 'absolutely everything'." He expertly evaded.

"Oh?" Evie shot, sarcastic and challenging.

"Yes. " The Phantom confirmed, totally assured of himself and with a superior edge to his voice. "Like who those two boys were or what exactly you were arguing with them about."

Evie was caught off guard. She thought he hadn't seen-

"But I do not _pry_ into it, do I?" he added, and she looked down in shame. A silence crept between them.

"I'm sorry, Phantom." Evie murmured quietly. She moved towards the organ and sat down beside it, and began to pick at the stitching of her sleeve. "I'm- just afraid one day you'll be gone all of a sudden." tears stood out in her eyes, and a strange guilt stabbed at the Phantom's heart. Why did this child care so much? "Things will go back to how they used to be and I wont even know your name." she choked.

"Hush," he said quietly, and chuckled. "You can't sing when you're crying, silly girl." He hesitated and then patted her hair, comfortingly.

She nodded and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, but she noticed he hadn't made any promises. It was a fragile thing she realised, this companionship that had grown between them. Like walking on thin ice, it could break at any moment and he would be gone, leaving no trace of himself- as if he had never even been there.

That was why he withheld so much. He was ready to be gone at any moment.

She would give him no reason to go. But there was one last thing...

"I was hoping you might wear it when you come to the ball after Opening Night?"

"Absolutely out of the question."


	8. Chapter 8

**Authors Notes: This chapter is dedicated to Blade for Hire who I love for their awesome advice. (He sleeps in a coffin??? Thats cool though I think Evie would have been a bit freaked out... I can't really change it now... Lets just say he left it behind in Paris or something :D And I've tried to fix the paragraphs and other things too ^^ *hugs*)**

**Also *hugs* (as always) for Suzette who edited this for me, and for Morii for being my loyal henchwoman and Cupcake. ^^ **

**Okies, I know this is a short one, but it's quite important and fun, and so "Crowning Moment of Heartwarming" that I desperately need to write something violent. Plus there is more, longer stuff on the way. Hope you like this. Let me know if you do =]  
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**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon~**

It was the evening before opening night.

Evelyn was curled up in one of the Phantom's deep armchairs, picking at the stitching of her sleeve. He had been working her hard, all night, and she was performing marvellously, although she still didn't have the heart in it that the Phantom had been bent on. However, he had all but given up trying to make her feel anything, focusing instead on her technical work.

"You're going very well, Evie, I think you will be quite ready for tomorrow night. The only problem I can think of presently is that you are cutting off your words. You must wait until the end of the bar to pronounce the 'n' otherwise it shuts off the sound-"

She was strangely silent, so he turned in his seat to look at her. Her head had fallen to the side, so that her hair partly covered her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted and her ribcage gently rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He smiled; partly in amusement, partly in pride.

The Phantom stood and moved to where she slept. He was loathe to wake her; she had worked very hard and needed all the rest that she could get tonight. Still, she could not stay there...

After a moment of thought the Phantom decided what he would do. Scooping her up effortlessly, he carried her over to her nest, hoping not to wake her. Upon placing her amongst the pile she moved a little, nestling herself further into the fabrics and burying her face in a cushion. He heard a small noise and for a moment thought he had woken her, but she did not move again.

An idea crept up on him then, an idea which quickly turned into a short melody that tumbled lightly about his mind. He almost cursed out loud. Clenching his teeth in frustration he looked from the small figure of the sleeping girl to the old upright piano that now lived in one corner of the room, and back again. Eventually he sighed. There was no use for it. He made his way quietly over to the piano and sat, throwing one last glance over his shoulder before beginning, ever so quietly, to put his idea to music.

In little time at all he had strung his new melody to the one he had begun shortly after arriving in London, in place of the bridge that had failed. He smiled in satisfaction. It fit perfectly.

He liked this new melody, it was not sad, like the first and led quite easily back into it. With it he now played the song all the way through, from the start to the finish without one hiccup. At its conclusion he sat for a few moments gazing at the keys in satisfaction.

Then a tiny sound came from behind him; a sharp intake of air that sounded like the breath before a sigh: "_Oh_"

The Phantom's head snapped around in response, and there stood Evie in the middle of her nest, completely still and her eyes fixated on his hands. Blankets lay about her feet as if they had just fallen from her shoulders, her hair was mussed and her lips slightly parted in awe, but the Phantom's attention was fixed only on the tears that slid silently down her face.

A sort of shock went through him, as if he was descending the stairs in the dark and he had thought there was one more stair than there actually was. Her glassy blue eyes flicked up, from his hands to his face.

"Play it again-" She breathed, her eyes pleading.

"Evie," the Phantom began quietly- hesitantly. "Are you alright?"

Evie's lips began to pull into a smile, but then turned halfway through into a frown of confusion.

"Of course I'm alright-"

"You are crying."

Her eyes flicked down and she put her fingertips to her cheek, looking then at the tears that clung to her fingers with something of a surprised expression on her face. She gave a little frown as a new thought occurred to her.

"Did you write that?" she asked quietly, her wide eyes once again fixed on his.

"I did." he replied after a moment, his expression unreadable.

A series of heart-rending sobs suddenly shook the girl, and she put her face in her hands, shoulders violently shaking with each one. She made noises as if she was trying to speak, but couldn't; "I--I--" Still sobbing, she took her face out of her hands, attempting to wipe away the tears that poured relentlessly from her eyes.

She was a picture of utter sadness, the Phantom thought, a beautiful sadness he wished he might be able to capture, but knew his music could never do justice. She stood there, alone and crying, and he did the only thing he could think of then; he held out his hand to her, and she came forward and took it, as if doing so might save her life. She clung on to it with all her might and he used it to draw her nearer, putting his arms comfortingly around her, letting her bury her face in his shoulder, waiting until the sobs that racked her entire body died into silence. She wouldn't let go, even after that, her arms wound tight around his shoulders.

"Phantom?" The little girl asked, in a voice that was half a whisper. He pulled away so he could see her face.

"Yes?" he replied, pushing her hair out of her eyes as he spoke, almost parent-like. She stifled another sob.

"It's beautiful." she whispered, looking at him earnestly. He smiled in amusement at her sincerity, then stood, taking her hand once more.

"Come, you need some sleep."

He walked with her back to box five, not really because she didn't know the way, but because he had some absurd desire to make sure she got there alright. Before they parted ways Evie again hugged him tight around the waist, and the Phantom couldn't help but smile, and marvel inwardly at the strange events of the day.

"You will be wonderful tomorrow night, I am certain of it." He murmured, hugging the little girl back.

She moved to go but at the doorway she stopped and turned back.

"There's no need to be so smug." she shot towards his silhouette, and she heard him chuckle as he disappeared.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**~White Lily, Blue Ribbon~**

"Break a leg!"

The whispers of good luck came from all sides as Evie made her way up the stairs to the stage, her heart in her mouth. It took her longer to make it up those stairs than it probably should have, which was due in part to the tent's worth of fabric in her costume, and partly to the ridiculous shoes she had been forced into to increase her height. She eventually managed to stumble to the top of the stairs, muttering "I might just break my leg, in these." under her breath.

Once she reached the top however she stepped on her skirts and tripped, screwing her eyes shut. When, to her surprise, she didn't in fact hit the ground, she opened her eyes to find she had been caught by the old stage manager, who gave her a wink.

"Go get 'em darlin'." he said. She smiled nervously back at him.

"Thanks,' she whispered.

She moved behind the heavy red curtain as the last people fled the stage. She took a few deep breaths, to still her nerves. _First fill the bottom of your lungs, then the top, _the Phantom's instructions still echoed around her head_, use your diaphragm... _She smiled to herself, getting into position.

In the moment before the curtain rose she heard a whisper, causing her to jump, making her head whip around.

"Hey, Evie!"

There stood Sebastian, clad in stage-blacks and about to haul the open the curtain. The sight of him brought sharply to mind their row of a couple nights before, but her fears were quelled when she saw that he was grinning. 'Break a leg,' he mouthed at her, just as she heard the audience fall silent on the other side of the curtain. She smiled her gratitude. At her nod, he took the chain in his hands, and the curtains swung open to the politely indifferent applause of the audience.

A moment or two passed in expectant silence.

Then, Evie began to sing.

xXx

From his vantage point in Box Five (which he had been pleased to find empty upon his arrival), the Phantom at first did not watch the stage, but instead the audience, gauging their reactions- a vain little habit he was yet to grow out of. He noted with a smug satisfaction the way each gentleman and lady now sat a little forward, on the edge of their seats. They even seemed to sway a little as the music filled the auditorium, as if it physically moved them.

However, as the music swelled to a crescendo and Evie's voice soared through the highest notes of her aria, he missed the tears welling up in the eyes of every member of the audience. He didn't see the way the lovers clasped hands in the dark, or see the contented smiles on the lips of those who had come alone, for he too had suddenly become captivated by the girl on the stage.

She didn't sing well. In fact, at one point her voice broke completely. She was crying; crying and singing at the same time, bent over the prone figure of the tenor that played her dying father. Even he wept, as silently as he could, trying not to draw attention to himself.

It wasn't the song that was what moved them to tears; in fact, as a piece of composition alone, the Phantom held it in a degree of disdain. The beauty lay in the truth with which she sang it. The Phantom knew now, as he watched her sing, she understood the meaning. She felt it.

His heart swelled with pride, but at the same time he felt it sink. There it was, what he had been striving for all these long months, and she had achieved it without him. The victory wasn't his, just as she wasn't really his. He gritted his teeth. And now she didn't need him any more. It was only a matter of time now, the Phantom thought bitterly, before she went off on her own. Before, self-satisfied and self-important, she left him. He fumed inside. The arrogance!

… He was getting ahead of himself. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound calm him. This was Evie. Evie who had cried for fear that _he_ would leave _her_. And yet, a part of him still ached inside, knowing the fragile arrangement they had developed would inevitably end. It always did. Still as the audience, a moment ago so polite, so disinterested, burst into roaring applause, he let himself enjoy it. Or if not enjoy, then at least appreciate it; this brief moment of victory.

xXx

When the curtain closed to the roar of Evie's standing ovation, the very first thing she did was remove her shoes. The second thing she did was run. She tore from the stage, pushing past each person- chorus, ballerina, or crew, that tried to trap her with their praises – there was only one person whose praises she wanted tonight.

She burst into box five with a flourish, red-faced and out of breath, but found it empty.

"...Phantom?" her face fell, and her heart sank. Where was he? Had he seen it? She looked around, as if by some chance he might appear from the shadows. A shape on one of the chairs drew her attention, and she moved closer to examine it. It seemed to be some sort of bundle. There was a note on top. She quickly picked it up and unfolded it.

_Dearest Evie_ it read. She smiled. Dearest, was it? _Well done tonight. I am quite pleased. _Pleased? Her face fell ...that was it? Just pleased? _With this letter please find a small gift, a reward of sorts for your efforts. _She looked again at the bundle the letter had rested upon, and picked it up. Her breath caught as it gently unfolded to the floor. It was a dress. A dress of a dark blue velvet and white silk, with sleeves to the elbows and a bow at the hip. It was easily the most beautiful thing Evie had ever seen in her life.

She was already near tears, but then as it unfolded something fluttered to the ground. Her father's blue ribbon. He'd found it. She tied it, hands trembling, into her hair, smiling through the water that had filled up her eyes. She looked back down at the letter. _I would have you wear it to the ball this evening, instead of whatever abomination your mother has picked out. _She laughed, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her costume. _Now stop reading and go prepare yourself. There are people waiting for you. _

She smiled and gathered up the dress in her arms, shuffling quietly down the empty hall before ducking into an empty broom cupboard to get changed in. She didn't feel quite up to braving the dressing rooms, they would be crawling with people at this moment; people preparing themselves for the celebration.

It was only once she'd stripped to her underskirts and stepped into the dress that she felt her stomach sink in realisation. She couldn't do the clasps up by herself. She was just beginning to fully panic when she heard a light footstep coming down the hall and a soft, tuneful humming. She peeked through the crack in the cupboard, and let out a breath of relief.

"Psst! Sebastian!" she whispered, opening the door just enough to stick out her head. He turned around, looking surprised and more than a little confused at the sight of her there. He was dressed much more elegantly than usual, she noticed, in a dark green coat with tails.

"Evie?" he asked, a curious smile lighting his face. "Hiding from your rabid admirers I see..."

"Very funny."

"Well what _are _you doing then?" he asked, "in a... broom cupboard? I thought you'd be down in the foyer..."

"Never mind that." she said quickly. "Come here, quick, I need your help." He stepped inside the cupboard with her, but blushed and quickly turned away when he realised what she wore.

"For God's sake Evie- you're half-dressed-"

"Oh stop being such a pansy," she said impatiently. "and help me do up this monster. I can't manage it on my own." He reluctantly obliged and once he had finished, she whirled to face him, smiling in satisfaction.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, arranging her skirts around her.

"Its..." he seemed speechless, unable to find the words to describe what he felt. Perhaps he was still ruffled from his earlier embarrassment... "a dress?"

"...That's it?" she looked back down at it. No, it was still as magnificent as it had always been.

"...pretty?" he floundered. "I don't know, Evie, I'm not good at these things. I mean, I only stole _this," _he gestured to his fine coat, "from the costume cupboard cause it was the least moth-eaten, and Hamish said - "

"Whatever, Sebastian," Evie sighed, rolling her eyes, "Come," she took his hand and tugged on it impatiently, in the direction of the foyer. "We're already late." He frowned.

"Aren't you worried about your mother-"

"I am the star of the London Opera now, Sebastian." she replied smoothly, smirking. "I can do whatever I want."

xXx

The room was a swirl of colour and music and laughter and life. When Evie and Sebastian crossed the threshold a swarm of people assaulted them, Lords and Ladies of every sort, heaping upon her more praise than she knew what to do with. For the most part she just smiled and blushed and mumbled thank-yous to her shoes, letting Sebastian steer her through the crowd.

"My dear! A stunning performance, truly-"

"... charming! Just charming! And even more so in person-"

"... how beautiful! And so young as well-"

It made Evie feel shy and bashful, but it also made her feel powerful- a kind of power she'd never known before. Here, being loved and adored by a hoard of people whose names she didn't even know, she was no longer a child, she was something more, something more than mere human. A star. She wished the Phantom were here. She wished he could see her now, see how far she had come.

All the attention made her brave, cocky even. When she caught Victoria's cold, narrowed eye from across the room she couldn't help but smirk. She caught Sebastian by the arm, noting with glee the way her mothers lips tightened.

"Dance with me, Sebastian?" she murmured in his ear as the group of musicians struck up a waltz.

"What?" he asked, with that ever-present touch of self-mocking sarcasm, "Me? The stage hand? When your mother expressly forbid it? And when that viscount over there has had his eye on you since you walked in?" He masked the bitterness in his tone with a joke as always, jerking his thumb at a weedy blonde man who was, indeed, staring in their direction. Evie wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"_Especially_ then." she replied and he laughed, taking her hand.

"As you wish, my Prima Donna..." When they began to dance others joined them, and the floor was soon full of twirling dresses, whirling tails and laughter. Evie and Baz weren't very proficient dancers, so much of the laughter came from their direction, and had much to do with stumbling or foot-fumbling. When the song finally came to an end, she smiled up at him, face flushed and eyes bright.

"Thank you, kind sir."

"Yeah, well don't let it go to your head." he said, a smile in his eyes. There was an element of irony in his voice, but she was too high now to notice it. "I'll have you know you're just one of many girls vying for my attention." she snickered, but someone had already tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to dance. Before Bas could say another word she was gone in a whirl of blue velvet and he was left alone.

The faces of the men and boys she danced with eventually blurred into one for Evie that night as she danced and danced until she was dizzy. And then again, she was spun from one man's arms into another's, but something caught her attention this time, making her frown. Red. Red and gold brocade. Her head snapped up to meet the man's eyes. Sharp, dark and deep-set and behind a skull mask of the finest quality.

"You came!" she breathed and threw her arms around her master's neck. "I'd thought you weren't going to..."

"And miss seeing my Prima Donna? Not for the world." he replied with a smile.

"Did you see-" she broke off, noticing how quiet the room had become all of a sudden. She looked around her, to find that people were all watching her out of the corner of their eyes, whispering amongst each other, throwing the odd glance in their direction. Victoria was making her way through the crowd towards them now, and Moretti and the Maestro weren't far behind.

"Good sir," Victoria began, her voice pleasant but false, "Your costume impresses us all, I am sure, but this evening's ball is not a masquerade."

"Well." the man in red said, turning to her slowly. His voice was low and chilling, unsettling even to Evie. "I did always love an entrance, Madame Frost. That is a charming dress that you are wearing, by the way." He said with a smirk, indicating the salmon pink confection she wore this evening. She took an unconscious step back, but her eyes narrowed.

"It would be taken as a kindness if you were to remove-"

"You are French." cut in the Maestro. The man in red stiffened, turning to the Maestro.

"I hope that is not a crime."

"Killing people is."

"Sebastian!" Evie whirled to face the boy who had stepped forward from the ring of people that had come to surround them. Her expression was shocked. "You mustn't talk about people that way-"

"Georgia died in hospital, Evie." he replied calmly.

"What?" she looked horrified, and tears sprang to her eyes as she glanced from person to person, as if hoping someone would contest his statement. "N- no..."

"But before she did," Sebastian was slowly walking up to the red-clad man, speaking to him now, eyes piercing, "she talked a lot about a man in a mask. The 'Opera Ghost'" there was an appreciative, intrigued tittering among the guests.

"Sebastian," warned the Maestro.

"What?" he challenged. "I'm right aren't I, Evie? This is the man who has been blackmailing the Opera House? This is the man who I saw you meet with every night in Box Five?"

"You _followed _me?"Evie exploded at the same time her mother screeched;

"You _followed_ her!"

"Evie!" warned the Phantom, at the same time Moretti said

"Victoria!" before frowning and adding, "Wait, you knew-?"

"Okay fine. This man is my singing tutor." Evie finally admitted.

"And what is 'this man's' name, then Evie?" the Maestro asked quietly. Evie floundered. She didn't know. She turned to Sebastian for help.

"Baz-" she pleaded.

"No Evie!" he growled, "I'm not covering for you any more!"

"Baz- _listen-"_

"_No, _Evie!" he roared. "Not when you'll sneak out in order to get stupid _singing_ lessons from some creep- some _murderer_ whose _name_ you don't even know, whose got the whole Opera House under his thumb and now you _defend him?_ What about us, Hell, what about me? I've been your best friend for God knows how long and you wont even _look_ at me any more!"

"Baz, _you're not listening to me_-"

"Well I'm through, I've had enough of your selfishness- your bloody _hypocrisy-_" his anger was swallowing his words, so turned to leave, but then doubled back as another thought hit him.

"You know what's the worst thing?" he asked, a little more softly, "Gerry's too young to understand, and _I _have to explain it to him when he asks how come you never see him any more. _I_ have to lie for you. Well I'm _done_ lying for you!" he declared before turning and pointing.

"_That man_ is the- " the man in red was gone. Excited whispers rose up from the ranks of the watchers as everyone looked about themselves for a glimpse of red. Once it was established that he was nowhere to be found, all eyes once again turned to Evie.

At that moment, she felt utterly alone.

"Miss Evelyn." said Moretti softly. Seriously. "I think you should come to my office."

* * *

**ITS A BIRD! ITS A PLANE! NO! IT'S... AN UPDATE!**

**So I've decided to attempt to finish this monstrosity, despite how much I've grown to hate it over the year it's been sitting dead and unfinished.**

**I'm not gonna apologise, cause odds are, if you were reading it before, you're not about to start again (and if you are, I'd just like to say, super special kudos to you) and if you've just discovered it, you won't really care. And also because honestly, this story was dead. I had no intention of starting it up again, or finishing it. Until, of course I was nagged, blackmailed, threatened and bribed enough into picking up the figurative pen one more time (special mention to KnutCase and Suzetteisblue). So here I am and, all Gods willing, this will be finished because I am sick of it sitting in "My Stories" section all unfinished and accusing-lookin'. In any case, I hope you enjoy it. =D**

**And now, just for fun, a conversation excerpt, which I'm sure everyone here can relate to.**  
**Knut**: Guess what I have on my desk right now.  
Clue- it's Phantom related.  
**CANDY**: … Gerard Butler?  
**Knut**: *swoons*


	10. Chapter 10

**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon ~**

"THEY _WHAT_!"

The Phantom had been sitting at his organ when Evie told him of the manager's decision. Now he was standing, gloved fists shaking in anger. Evie herself was backed against the wall, cheeks ashen in the face of his fury.

"I'm- not the lead s-soprano any more." she stuttered, looking at her shoes. He only stared at her for a moment or two in mute rage. Then whirled around, his arm sweeping though several glass vases, sending them crashing to the floor. Evie flinched, averting her face. He took a moment or two to catch his breath and suppress his anger, hand on the organ to steady himself.

"_Fools_!" he roared, banging both fists against the wood. "You are the _only_ soprano in this pathetic little Opera House with the ability-"

"Phantom, _please_." her quiet whimper cut off his torrent of anger so completely it left him a little stunned. There were frightened tears running down her face. He slowly turned back to her, lowering his fists. "D-don't shout... _Please." _she whispered.

"Evie..." his voice was strained, "This is an injustice..."

"It's alright, really it is." she pleaded, shaking her head. "I never wanted to be the lead anyway, but..." she took a deep shuddering breath, looking up and wiping the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. "This doesn't mean I can't have lessons any more, does it?" her voice trembled and his face softened.

Evie. It never failed to surprise him, she never failed to throw him off-balance. Evie, who feared _he_ would leave _her_...

"Of course not." he breathed and slowly walked over to her. He rested a hand on her shoulder. "You may come here until you no longer wish it." She wound her arms tight around his waist, burying her face in his shirt as if she wanted to hide her face from him. He ran a gloved hand over her hair, words stuck in his throat.

However it eventually came to him, what he wanted to say, and he leant down, far enough to whisper in her ear. "... My name is- ...Erik."

xXx

Now that Evie was no longer required for rehearsals, having been removed from the position of lead soprano, she had a lot of free time. Whilst it was true that to let her continue, knowing now the identity of her tutor was out of the question, rehearsals keenly felt her absence. They had two options at that point in time; train another young girl to sing, or have Victoria take over. At present, they were desperately trying the first option, and it was not going as well as one would hope.

The poor thing tried her best, knowing everyone's hopes were pinned on her, but that didn't stop people exchanging long-suffering glances when her back was turned. It didn't help that the lead tenor was aging rapidly either, and was considering retirement. It was speculated he only hung around because he felt guilty about adding to the opera house's troubles.

Evie, by contrast, was having a grand old time. She spent the majority of her days now holed away in the Phantom's tower, methodically going through all the sheet music he kept in his trunks, picking it out on the piano. Sometimes Erik would play it with her, but often Evie would arrive while the Phantom was out, and he would return to find her at the piano, already surrounded by various sheets of music he had written over the course of his life- it was always _his_ music, never by anyone else. (She had confided in him not long after the opening night that it was by imagining she was singing _his_ music, she was able to summon the emotion he had been after for so long.)

One such day he arrived home to find her curled up in her nest, prepared to scold him for being later than usual. She stopped, however, when she noticed what had brought with him; In his arms was a bouquet of white calla lilies. Her face lit up in delight and curiosity.

"Not roses?" she inquired. On the visible half of his face there was a mysterious little smile.

"Not today." he eventually said, hanging up his cape. "I thought it was time for something new."

"After all this time?" she murmured for no reason in particular. Still, she scrambled to her feet, straightening her dress and then pattered over to him, taking the bunch of flowers from his arms. She started sifting through the room to find a suitable vase, as he went to the organ and sat down. She found one, a blue ceramic one, underneath a stack of papers. He frowned slightly- he didn't like that vase- but when she placed the flowers in it he had to admit they complimented each other in quite a charming fashion. He smiled- the girl had an artist's eye.

She set the vase on the little table in front of his mirrors in silence. Then a strange change came over her, as she arranged them. Her muscles stiffened and it felt as if she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. "Lilies mean death, you know." she said, her tone falsely light and casual. "_I_ don't know why. They don't have thorns like roses do. They don't make you _bleed_..." She ran a finger along the stem of one. "And when they die, rose petals shrivel and fall out. Make a mess all over the place. But lilies just stay. Only look like they've been burnt at the edges..."

The Phantom stared at her, puzzled by her words. She'd never had a problem with roses before now... but he couldn't help but feel that wasn't what this was about. There was another layer of meaning underneath it. He was saved the effort of puzzling it out when she turned around and delivered the one line perfectly crafted to ruin his evening.

"Erik... may I see your face?"

He instinctively flinched at her words and his hand went protectively to his mask. "No."

"May I _please?"_

"_No."_

Her eyes filled with tears. "stop that." he said. He knew perfectly well that she had been trained to cry at the drop of a hat. She scowled, and was silent for a long time.  
"What are you so afraid of?" her voice was low and insidious.

And suddenly the only thing the Phantom could see was the look on Christine's face when she had ripped his mask from him. Her eyes filled with terror and repulsion. _Stranger than you dreamt it... can you even bear to look?_ He didn't think he could handle it if Evie was driven away as well. Not after all this time and effort...

And yet, the angry, determined look in her eyes said that keeping her in the dark would have exactly the same effect.

And so it was that the Phantom of the Opera found himself slowly, hesitantly lifting the white mask from his face.

Then it was off.

He waited for the familiar gasp, the involuntary step away, even aversion of the eyes, but it never came. In fact, a completely different expression currently graced the little girl's face.

_Disappointment? _

He frowned in confusion, hand automatically going to his face. It _felt_ the same. At his expression, Evie covered her mouth with her hand, making a stifled squeaking noise. She was _laughing?_

"What?"

"Oh Erik." she sighed. "I _thought_ it was going to be so much _worse._"

"-_Worse_?" he looked in one of his cracked mirrors- his face certainly hadn't changed. He looked back at Evie, perplexed, "How- ...Could it be worse?" He stammered, his mind numb in surprise.

"Oh. Lots of ways." she said, coming over to sit at the foot of his stool and shrugging. "Well at first I was imagining horrible boils, or warts or something." she began explaining, "but then I though maybe you'd been in a horrible fight and it was covered in scars, or maybe part of your nose was missing or something. And _then_ I had this brilliant idea that maybe your skin had melted off and the tendons and bones were visible from underneath. So you see this," she gestured to his disfigurement, "is really just a bad sunburn compared to what I had imagined."

He stared at her, dumbstruck, for quite a long while. "You are... and _incredibly _strange child." he said and she looked a little taken aback. "Despite all this you weren't afraid at _all?" _she frowned in confusion.

"Should I have been? You didn't seem to mean me any harm..."

"But every other person ever to have seen this face has been terrified." His world no longer made sense. That clear line which had defined him for so long was now blurry, and he didn't quite know what to do.

"Really?" She replied, "How disappointing. Don't the French have any stomach for the gruesome?" she playfully shoved his knee. He absently noticed she had no qualm in touching him. "I've been sneaking penny dreadfuls out of the kitchens since I could read. Bas used to get them for us. Mother doesn't like me reading them..." he was vaguely aware she was teasing him, but it didn't really bother him- he hardly noticed at all.

""You imagined me as some incredibly hideous _monster_." he said, still in shock. "and you weren't at all afraid?" she looked so fragile. How could so such a tiny creature be so brave?

"Monster?" Evie repeated. There was a long silence, before she laughed, all of a sudden bitter. "No." her expression turned dark as she looked out the clock face, into the square below. There was another long pause, before she started to speak again. "A monster is someone who deceives you. Someone beautiful and good on the outside, who turns on you the moment no one is around to see. And it's alright because its good for you. And she _knows_ what's good for you, because she's beautiful and good. They don't write about that kind of monster in books."

"Evie..." he said, at a loss for words. He ran a hand through her thick raven hair. At last he spoke when he finally felt he could trust his voice. "Shall we- shall we begin with scales?"

xXx

The Phantom was trying to squeeze through a particularly tight passage in the walls of the opera house one day, when he first heard the voices. He stopped, frowning when he first heard the word 'Evelyn' issuing from somewhere nearby and remained stock still, ears pricked for anything more.

The muted sound of voices led him a couple paces away to where he found a dusty old grate in the floor. From his position it appeared he had a birds eye view of Moretti's main office. Delighted at his discovery and curious as to why he hadn't found it before, he peered into the room beyond to see Moretti, the Maestro and Victoria all crowded around the desk, having what appeared to be a heated discussion.

"The answer is staring us in the face!" the Maestro said. "We have him in the palm of our hand as long as Evelyn is still learning from him! She knows his secrets! She knows where he hides! Think of it- to be finally rid of him!" The Phantom didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.

Not that Evie would ever betray him. She barely left his side, these days. But the conspiring reminded him forcefully of his last days at the Opera Populaire; something he didn't really like being reminded of. It set him on edge. Made him suspicious and distrustful.

"_You're playing in dangerous waters here, old man." _he whispered to himself. Moretti was talking now.

"Yes but you have to admit the news of an 'Opera Ghost' is generating a lot of interest. Revenue since the ball has increased by almost double-"

"_God damn it Moretti!"_ the Maestro cried, slamming his fists on the table, "there will _still_ be intrigue after we have caught him! We could devise stunts of our own. _Stunts-" _he continued, "that don't involve people _dying_." Moretti was silent for a moment, before he murmured something that the Phantom couldn't quite make out.

"Oh I think she will." said Victoria suddenly, who up until then had been uncharacteristically quiet. "I have some leverage, you might say. Something to offer her in exchange."  
"What?" asked the two men in unison. The phantom could almost hear the smirk in her voice  
"The boy stage hand. Sebastian."

xXx

It was a couple days later that the Phantom saw Evie for the last time.

She was sitting at his organ, sheet music scattered around her. _His music. _She could never betray him. It made him smile as he took off his cape, just having arrived back from running an errand- he was nearly out of oil for his lamps.

The smile slid from his face, however, when he heard what she sang. "_Past all thought of right or wrong. One final question; How long should we two wait before we're one?"_

The sound of her voice singing those words filled him with an inexplicable burning anger. She should not have found that music. How _dare_ she sing that song! That song that had meant to him so much pain? He felt betrayed; that she should be exposed to that side of him that he was most ashamed of. It infuriated him.

He moved towards the organ and she paused when he approached, looking up and smiling in greeting. He slammed the lid of the organ closed. She jumped in her seat and stared at him in utter shock. He was leaning against the organ, his eyes closed and his face stony. She was silent, alarmed and even frightened by his sudden change. When he finally spoke his voice was soft; controlled.

"You will never play, or sing that song."

"But-"

"_Never."_ his tone was a little more harsh. Evie frowned, her expression indignant.

"Why not?" she shot. He felt his face burn. She didn't understand it at all.

"It is... _inappropriate _for a child of your age." he finally said, voice shaking from the effort it took to remain calm. Evie, stubborn as she was, was not making that easy. She narrowed her eyes

"There's more to it than that, isn't there." she said darkly, scrutinising his face. He remained silent so as not to shout, turning his back on her. Evie wasn't to be deterred. "It was her, wasn't it. The girl in Paris. The one you ran away from."

"Do not talk about what you do not understand." he snapped, voice rising in volume. Evie raised her own voice to match. She was sick of him keeping secrets, especially when she didn't keep any from _him._

"It bothers you to hear me sing it because it reminds you of her, doesn't it!"

"I _said_-"

"That's what it says on the music here!" she threw the red-bound score at his feet in anger. "_Christine_ _Daee_! So when were you going to tell me about _her_, huh? _Were_ you? I bet-"

_Crash. _

In a split second the back of his fist connected with the side of her face, sending her crashing into the mirrors. A couple fragments broke off and fell on her, cutting her hands when she used them to cover her face.

For a long time he only stood there, fists still shaking in righteous rage. She lowered her shaking hands and looked at him from where she had landed on the floor, tear-filled eyes wide in fear- That fear that he was so used to by now, but that Evie had never shown. Until now.

"Get out." he whispered, turning his back on her. After a moment he heard the trap-door slam behind him. It took all his self control not to put his fist through the clock face.

He should have known. He should never have taken her in. He had known it would end like this. And now the three conspirators had all that they needed to sniff him out. After a scene like that, Evie would no doubt betray him in a heart beat. The thought made him blind with fury. After all he had done for her! And all because of that one, damned piece of music that had ruined everything last time. He picked up the offending score and threw it into a corner of the room.

He didn't know how Evie had found it, or where it had even been. He didn't know how long it would take for her to turn him in, how long he had to clear out before they set the dogs on him. There was one thing he did know, however.

She would not be back.

* * *

**A/N: I think insidious is my new favourite word.**

**Also, Evie's reaction to the Phantom's face in this fic is dedicated to all the hard-core Phantom fans who were disappointed in the movie's watered-down portrayal of Erik's disfigurement. The 'bad sunburn' line was directly taken from them, actually. I personally don't mind the movie's portrayal- keeping it schmick and sexy never goes down badly- but for those of you who _did_, this one is for you =P**

**Uhhh... I think thats all my comments for this chapter. I'd sure be interested in hearing yours though. *rim-shot* =D**

**Lots of love,  
CANDY **


	11. Chapter 11

**~ White Lily, Blue Ribbon ~**

Sebastian watched Box five for hours. He just needed some hint, some clue as to how the Phantom came and went. The plan that was in his mind that moment was ludicrous. He'd probably get himself killed. But if it provided him with a chance to show Evie how wrong she'd been... he'd take it with both hands.

However the hours came and went, with not even the slightest movement coming from box five. Sebastian was perplexed, and more than a little annoyed. Evie had usually appeared by now, in fact, she'd never missed a day that he'd been watching. So why now?

He'd followed her once after that first night, with Jerry. Just because he felt something odd was going on, and as it had turned out, there was. He'd watch as the black-clad man had appeared, as if out of nowhere, and taken Evie... somewhere. It was hard to tell from his vantage point on the other side of the theatre.

After a couple more minutes, fed up and deciding nothing was going to happen, Sebastian stormed into box five, determined to find the secret for himself. However, when another hour of snooping and searching provided him with no conclusive results, he felt it was time to give up. Seething in anger, he vented his frustration on one of the chairs, launching a kick at it.

As the armrest folded up, so did the chair, revealing a long, dark tunnel into the walls of the opera house.

Sebastian's mouth fell open.

The journey along the tunnel was impossibly dark, and Sebastian, clumsy at even the best of times, fell no less than twice. Eventually though, he reached the end, and upon discovering the pulley system, pulled himself up with shaking hands, until he reached the trap door.

The room that the trap door opened to reveal was sparse. There were a couple crates scattered around the place, filled with assortments of various things. Drawers and cabinets hung open, as if someone had unpacked them and left in a hurry. Intrigued, Sebastian pulled himself into the room, gazing around in wonder and curiosity. He appeared to be in a clock tower-

Suddenly something smashed him over the back of his head, sending him sprawling to the floor. He scrambled to his feet, his first instinct to get away from whatever it was that had attacked him. It didn't give him much time, though, for it quickly spun him around and grabbed the collar of his shirt, slamming him back into the floor and pressing the cold blade of a sword to his throat.

Sebastian's eyes met those cold grey ones that belonged to the man who now held him at sword-point. The man who's face was half obscured by a white mask.

"How did you find this place?" the man hissed.

"Ohgodalmightypleasedon'tkillme!" the boy spluttered, which earned him a sharp smack on the face.

"I _said_ HOW DID YOU FIND THIS PLACE!" the man roared, and Sebastian cowered.

"It was an accident!" he whimpered, "Please, I don't want to die-"

"Liar." the man breathed, before growling; "The passageway to this place is impossible to find. Evie told you, didn't she!"

"Evie?" Sebastian looked genuinely surprised. Why would _Evie_ have told him? Evie never told him _anything_. "No! No! Not Evie! I told you, it was an accident. I kicked the chair..." the man frowned, his hold on Sebastian loosening, the sword not pressed so hard against his neck.

"Moretti and the others didn't send you here?" Of course, it didn't make sense to send a _boy_. Were they going to send someone, like he'd expected, they would send police. Not a _boy_. His story could be true.

"What?" the boy looked incredibly perplexed, even in his state of terror. "No! No why would _they_- no!" His words all came out in a tumble. The Phantom frowned.

"Then... why did you come here?" the man's words were cold and ever so slightly threatening. Sebastian gulped, as the sword glinted in the light from the candles that were scattered across the room.

"I..." he took a deep breath to steady himself, looking at his boots. When he turned his eyes upwards once again, there was a steel in them. "I want to learn to sing."

The Phantom was silent a very long time, staring at the boy with a frown on his face, mind ticking over what he had said. Eventually, he spoke.

"Why?"

Sebastian had to think for a moment. He hadn't been prepared for that question.

"I suppose... it would make certain people very unhappy. If _I_ became the new lead Tenor..." his eyes shone as he pictured it in his mind. "They would _hate_ it." a little smile came to his lips as he imagined it. The boy definitely had ambition, but did he have the voice? It certainly wouldn't hurt to stay just a _little_ while longer, to find out... And for the boy to go to these lengths out of sheer _spite..._ the notion tickled the Phantom for some reason.

After a long moment of thought, the Phantom sheathed his sword. He held out a hand and helped the boy to his feet.

"I think... you and I will get along rather well." he said with a smirk.

xXx

Evie hadn't been in a very good mood lately. In fact, anyone who attempted to talk to her was either ignored or snapped at, so most people had given up trying, accepting that she _had_ inherited her mother's tendency towards "moods".

Whenever she let her mind go it wandered back to the Phantom and the look on his face as he'd turned and struck her. Sometimes, when she was all alone, she'd cry. She still couldn't believe after so long, after she'd trusted and loved him so much, he'd ended up no better than Victoria.

Other times she'd seethe in silence, convinced that the whole time he'd wanted to use her and her voice to insinuate himself further into the theatre. Hadn't he said so, at some point? The thought was so crushing that she'd cry a little more.

And still, no matter how much she tried to forget him, forget all about him, she couldn't shake that song from her mind. It's cadences, its rhythm, it's slow haunting melody. _Past, the point of no return..._ She sometimes caught herself humming it absently, and immediately returned to her state of seething hatred and self-disgust.

There was just something about it; she was in _love_ with the song. It stirred something in her. Something exciting and tenuous that she wasn't old enough yet to understand or put a name to.

Still, no matter how angry Evie became over those couple of weeks with no lessons to go to, nothing could have prepared her for the sheer outrage she met with the sight that was presented to her one evening in the auditorium.

The new soprano on the stage was singing, and Evie could probably pick out every little thing that she was doing wrong, but next to her stood the new Tenor. And his voice was flawless. Once Evie had adjusted to the colossal shift in her universe that was Sebastian _on_ the stage, it began to creep up on her;

The way he stood, the way he breathed, the way he never rolled his 'r's or used vibrato... She knew that technique- there was no mistaking it.

But Evie didn't cry.

No not this time, not when Sebastian was receiving every attention he could possibly receive, from the giggling dancers, the crew members, the Maestro. The attention that was supposed to be hers. No Evie didn't cry, not even betrayed by the two people she loved the most in the world. She knew exactly what she was going to do, as she stormed from the room, pushing roughly past a number of people on her way out.

"_I hate to have to cut the fun short._" she muttered to herself as she burst into her room and knelt at the chest which sat at the foot of her bed.. "_But the joke's wearing thin." _She reached inside "_I'll just let myself in_."

She pulled out her shiny blue ribbon.

* * *

**A/N: If I named my chapters this one would probably be entitled: RETURN OF THE PLOT DEVICE. And it would be dedicated to this grilled cheese sandwich I am currently eating. Anywho. How y'all going? I know it was a short one this time, but aw hell, it's full of important little tidbits and my PERSONAL favourite thing ever; **_**References!**_** Yay! *skips*  
As always, I hope you like the chapter. I sure as hell don't post these for myself. =P **

**Nevertheless, any feedback would be nice. *batts eyelashes*  
Stay with us! There is only one chapter still to go!**

**PS: THANKYOU MAWREE FOR BETA-ING xXx**_  
_**This is CANDY, signing off. **


	12. Chapter 12

**~White Lily, Blue Ribbon~**

One evening the Phantom arrived back from visiting the rehearsal for the following month's performance of "Rigoletto". Still humming the tune to "La Dona e Mobile" under his breath, he waved one of his gloves in front of him as he walked, as if conducting. He was feeling rather pleased with himself; too often the male romantic leads were played by overweight old men, for they were the only ones with enough power and range to accommodate the role. Not so with Sebastian. The boy was a fast learner, and it had taken hardly any time at all to bring him up to scratch.

Erik leapt onto the platform and prepared to haul himself up to the trapdoor, when he felt the crunch of broken glass under his boot and froze in his tracks. He lit a match, better to see by, and knelt, fingering the shards of it in his hand. It was the remains of a lamp, and it was still warm.

Suddenly his heart was in his mouth, and he hauled himself higher and higher, as fast as his protesting muscles would allow. When he finally reached the trapdoor he threw it open and leapt out, drawing his knife. There was no one in the room, but it had been ransacked.

Nothing about the room was any different from the way he'd left it that morning; drawers were still left open, the contents of which were on the floor. Crates were still scattered about, half full. No, the Phantom knew someone else had been there, from the fact that the lock of his trunk- the one he kept locked at all times- had been picked, and it was sitting open.

His heart started to beat faster. Who had been in here? Had they been looking for him? Had Evie finally told them where he'd been hiding? He'd thought she'd been taking her time about it... did they think he'd moved on? Did that mean he was safe to stay? Why had they opened his trunk?

As he crept closer, boots making barely a noise on the wooden floor, his palms began to sweat, but it wasn't until he saw inside that the impact fully hit him. He stared into the chest for a while, stock still, before kneeling at it and reaching inside.

The last remaining score of 'Don Juan' -the one he'd kept locked away in this trunk- was gone. In it's place, was a single white lily with a ribbon tied around it of the deepest blue. He knew who had done this.

The hand that held the flower began to shake, before he crushed it in his fist, teeth grinding together in blinding anger. He'd been thwarted, and by _her?_

It was _her?_ She'd had the _nerve _to come back and steal from him? Well she would realise her mistake. That much was certain.

One didn't simply steal from the Phantom of the Opera.

xXx

It wasn't hard for Erik to locate Evie. All he had to do was follow the screaming. He found her arguing with her mother in the dressing room he had set fire to so many weeks ago. They had been making such a fuss that they'd started to attract spectators, people that came into the hallway and peered into the door, just to see what all the fuss was about. The Maestro was in there too, acting as mediator. Or attempting to, in any case.

"I wont!" Evie snarled, putting the table between herself and the other two. "You can take your _proposal, _your god damn _lead tenor_, and you can shove them up your collective arses. I don't want them!"

… Erik was taken aback. Those were the things that Victoria had promised to her if she revealed to them the location of his hiding place.

She... she _wasn't _giving him up? After what he had done to her, she _wasn't_ going to betray him? And slowly, creeping up on him like fatigue, a shame of impossible weight settled on his shoulders. After all his certainty she would betray him, he instead had betrayed her; when he had withheld his past from her; when he had struck her; when he had gone and replaced her with her best friend... It had been him, all along.

He opened his hand, the crushed and dying lily still laying in his palm. Who was he trying to fool? She had been perfect...

From down below, the voices started up again.

"You'd be prepared to earn the hatred of this _entire_ opera house, to save a man you barely _know_?" the Maestro growled, standing up. Evie narrowed her eyes.

"Easily."

"I don't know what crazy ideas you have got into your head Evelyn!" Victoria shrieked, "that make you think he would think twice before giving you the same treatment Georgia received, but it's time to _grow up! _That man, that _thing_ is _not_ _your_ _father_!"

Evie would not be outdone. She raised her own voice to match.

"Well thanks to _you_, he was the closest thing I've _ever had_ and I will _die_ before I betray him to an ugly, squashed-nosed _hag_ like _you!" _

A vein in Victoria's temple twitched as she stared at her daughter for a second. Slowly, her shaking hand reached out to the little wooden desk; from which she took the glass decanter of spirits in her hand; against which she smashed it.

She advanced towards the little girl now, broken bottle clutched tightly in her hand. "I'll show _you_ disfigurement." she hissed under her breath. 

Evie's eyes widened in fear, and she took a half step back. "_Victoria!"_ the Maestro cried as Victoria raised the bottle over her head, but it was too late.

The screams sent a chill through the bones of every man and woman present. By the time two of the more burly stage hands were able to wrestle the ex-Prima Donna from her daughter, Evie was in a crumpled heap on the ground, blood trickling through the fingers that covered her face.

Victoria fought against the stage hands, screaming rage and murder. After some moments of struggling, they found they had to pin her against the wall to keep her from attacking Evie again. Until, all of a sudden Victoria stopped moving, her eyes going blank and glazing over.

The stage hands, Hamish and Gregory frowned at the sudden lack of resistance, taking a step back and releasing her. She fell forward, sprawled on her face.

There was a collective gasp from around the room at the pool of blood, blossoming on her back almost as if from nowhere. Then they saw the blade in the wall.

"To all who would do Evelyn harm..." the Maestro said, his soft words quelling the uproar, "bear witness to this..." he himself stared at the blade, as if not entirely convinced what he had just witnessed was real, "for God in heaven only knows why... but the Phantom of the London Opera surely loves her a great deal..." he sank into a chair, seemingly unable to support his own weight any longer. People rushed to Victoria's side but she was already too far gone. She died only an hour or so later.

It wasn't until weeks later that they discovered the panel could be pushed aside, and found the blade belonged to the hilt of a sword that had been thrust through from the secret passage within the walls. By that time Evelyn was already in the hospital, the majority of her face wrapped in fine, white gauze.

She thought she was dreaming one night when she felt a breeze on her skin; the breeze from the window which the nurse had surely closed on the way out. She thought she imagined the soft footsteps approaching her, but there was no mistaking that the gloved hand which took her own was real.

"Who's there?" she whispered from behind her mask of bandages. "Erik?"

"I'm here, ma cherie." came his velvety voice from near her ear. She drew a sharp breath, that stung her damaged lips.

"The music- I'm sorry-" she shrank away from him, her voice panicked. She was frightened of him. It made his eyes sting a little, but he knew it was only right. "I didn't know what I was thinking- It's in the secret room- please just don't-" _hurt me..._

"Evie, it's alright." he murmured, his voice choked. "The music is nothing. Nothing at all. It's yours now. _No one_ will hurt you ever again. Not ever."

She was silent for a moment, as if she didn't quite know what to do with the information he had just presented to her. "You're not furious?" she whispered, sounding a little confused.

"No, cherie." he whispered, running a hand over her inky hair. "Nothing could be further from the truth... please. Don't be afraid..."

"I'm not afraid!" she protested, voice shaking. "I just can't see." She was silent a long while before she spoke, her voice a murmur only the keenest ear could detect. "It's so dark... please tell me Erik, am I just like you, now...?" she raised a hand to her face, but didn't touch it, for fear of the pain.

"Oh, Evie." he sighed. "You are so much _better_ than _me_..."

"They say she's dead." Evie said softly. "They say the Opera Ghost killed her." Erik turned his face away. "...Is it true?"

He was silent a long while. "Yes."

"Have you killed many people?"

"... Yes." his voice was barely audible, it was so soft.

… Good." she finally whispered. "I would be disappointed in you had you made a rash decision." her hand still trembled slightly. Despite her big words, she was still frightened. He took it in his own, softly kissing her knuckles.

"Evie... I promise you now, never to allow you to come to harm, ever again. I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you, but I swear to you now, you will have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing, for the rest of your life." He couldn't be entirely sure, but it seemed as if she were crying, from behind the gauze that covered her face. "I promise."

"I'm not afraid. I just can't see. That's all."

The following morning, the nurse was slightly confused as to the origin of a vase of white lilies that sat on the little girl's dressing-table, which she was convinced hadn't been there the previous night.

xXx  
**1917, Paris France  
**

_It was Autumn, and the fallen leaves rustled around the old man's feet as he stood in front of the great white headstone. He'd never thought he'd outlive her. He brushed a couple of leaves from the base of the stone, freshly engraved. He'd only received word that she had passed away a couple days ago, from an anonymous letter in the mail, which he suspected was Madame Giry's daughter, Meg. There was no way the old lady had survived this long..._

_There was an image of her on the grave, older as well; gray haired. She still looked like his Christine though. He half-expected a wave of emotion to overwhelm him, as it might have in the past. He was surprised, however, to feel relatively little. A fond nostalgia and melancholy crept up on him, as hunger might, but all in all he was the picture of calm as he stood over her grave._

_Because he had bid goodbye to Christine Daae long before this day._

_He twirled the flower in his fingers for a moment, and finally smiled, setting it on the stone. "You led a blessed life." he whispered. "Bon voyage, ma cherie." _

_The old man turned to walk away, towards the figure that stood at the cemetery gate. A woman, grown now. She wore a dark veil and held a thin cane adorned by a scarlet bow in her hands. She smiled as she heard him approach and took his arm. _

_He too, had led a blessed life. _

_~ finis ~

* * *

_

**A/N: Stretching the rules a bit early on there, I know. Technically speaking, there is no way to train someone for OPERA that fast. Especially as Sebastian had no prior training. But lets just say that dear Erik has magical teaching powers and move along, accepting that in the future we will look back on this, laugh awkwardly and change the subject~  
PUPPIES! =D**

**SO, We have at last come to the end of this journey. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves and if so, you could possibly maybe leave a token of your appreciation on the reviews page? She hinted, subtly.  
I'd like to once again thank KnutCase, Suzetteisblue, Sami and everyone else who had their sticky hands in this from the start. **

**Thank you for reading and supporting this venture. **

**CANDYisEpic**


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